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Copyright,  igo8,  by 
FLEMING  H.  KEVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago  :  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto  :  25  Richmond  St.,  W. 
London  :  2 1  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh  :  100  Princes  Street 


JDcbtcation 


TO   J.    H.    M. 

FROM  CHILDHOOD  MY  LIFE'S  BEST  COMRADE, 
CRITIC,   LOVER,   FRIEND 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

THE  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

Chapter  Page 

I.     A  Garden  House  in  Aldersgate 

Street // 

//.     The  Undercroft 27 

III.  In  Mercery  Lane      ....  40 

BOOK  II 
"BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

IV.  Shotover 53 

V.     Gentlewomen  in  Distress     .     .       70 

VI.  A  Debt  for  a  Dowry     .     >     .  87 

VII.     A  Letter 102 

VIII.  "An  Image  of  Earth  "...  105 

IX.  A  Bride  Delinquent       .     .     .  124 

BOOK  HI 

THE  POET,  THE  LAW,  AND  THE  LADY 

X.     An  Ultimatum 139 

XL      The  Visitor  in  the  Sedan  Chair     153 
7 


8 


CONTENTS 


Chapter 

XII. 
XIII. 
XIV. 

XV. 
XVI. 


XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 


Heart's  Fire       .... 

Winceby 

Heart 's  Dew  .... 
A  Forger  of  Thunderbolts 
'  'In  a  World  of  Disesteem 

BOOK  IV 

THE  IMPERIAL  VOICE 

The  Fortunes  of  War  .     . 

Challenged 

Broken  Music 


Page 

166 
178 
187 
195 
208 


227 

236 
256 


BOOK  V 

PROSPER 

XX.     Lady  Margaret       .     ...     279 

XXI.     A  Gallop  over  Harbledown  .     290 

XXII.     "Monsieur  My  Nephew"     .    309 

BOOK  VI 

SIX  TEARS  AFTER 

XXIII.     The  Latin  Secretary     .     .     .    327 
XXIV.     The  Light  Excelling    .     .     .    340 


BOOK  I 
THE  PEERLESS  PURITAN 


"Mortals  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue;   she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  you  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her." 


A   GARDEN  HOUSE  IN  ALDERS- 
GATE  STREET 

ON  a  May  morning  five  or  six  boys  were 
busy  with  their  books  in  a  large  upper 
room,  the  private  study  of  a  scholar's  house 
in  Saint  Botolph's  Parish,  London. 

This  house,  secluded  by  an  entry  or  court 
and  having  behind  it  a  pretty  garden,  stood 
in  the  Aldersgate  Street,  just  outside  the 
ramparts  of  the  city  and  but  a  short  distance 
from  the  towering  Jacobean  Alders'  Gate. 
The  street,  stretching  away  northward,  was 
free  from  noise  and  presented,  according  to  a 
writer  of  the  day,  a  third  of  a  mile  of  fair 
houses  on  both  sides  "till  ye  come  to  Long 
Lane";  it  resembled  an  Italian  street  more 
than  any  other  in  London  by  reason  of  the 
spaciousness,  the  uniformity,  and  the  conveni 
ent  distance  of  its  buildings.  The  house  in 
question,  a  good  and  handsome  one,  had  been 


12       The  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

found  fit  for  a  scholar's  turn  by  its  well- 
ordered  seclusion  and  its  dignified  surround 
ings. 

The  study  had  a  low  ceiling,  crossed  by 
heavy  beams  of  black  oak  and  a  high,  paneled 
wainscot,  interrupted  by  a  small  pipe-organ, 
an  organ  positive  as  it  was  called,  and  by 
crowded  bookcases  reaching  to  the  ceiling. 
At  either  end  of  the  room  was  a  row  of  deep- 
niched  casement  windows  with  small  circular 
leaded  panes.  At  the  one  end,  where  the  long 
study  table  stood,  these  casements  overlooked 
the  quiet  street;  from  those  opposite  could  be 
seen  the  well-kept  garden.  In  the  recess  of 
these  latter  windows  a  young  girl  sat  in  a 
straight-backed  chair,  at  a  small  stiff  desk  on 
which  were  quill  pens,  an  ink-horn,  and  a  few 
well-worn  Greek  and  Latin  books. 

The  May  sunshine  streamed  through  an  open 
casement  upon  the  head  of  this  girl,  whose 
name  was  Delme'  and  who  distinctly  belonged 
to  a  different  strain  from  the  florid  English 
lads.  Now  and  then  she  shaded  her  eyes  with 
one  hand  and  glanced  aside  into  the  garden; 
the  hand  was  slender  and  brown-skinned ;  hair 


A  GARDEN  HOUSE  13 

and  eyes  were  brown  also,  but  in  the  sun  gold- 
dust  seemed  scattered  through  them. 

At  the  foot  of  the  garden  stood  an  enormous 
spreading  plane  tree.  In  the  shade  of  it,  be 
tween  the  box-bordered  flower  beds  where  roses 
bloomed  and  a  tall  hedge  was  white  with  May, 
Delme'  could  see  the  figure  of  a  man  in  a  black 
scholar's  gown,  who  paced  the  path  slowly  to 
and  fro.  Presently  she  closed  the  book  and  sat 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  opposite  wall  in  an 
intent,  nothing-seeing  gaze,  silently  memoriz 
ing  the  stately  hexameter  of  her  lesson. 

From  the  table  across  the  room  rose  a  con 
fused  murmur  of  suppressed  voices  buzzing 
busily  the  Latin  conjugation  of  verbs  and  the 
paradigms  of  nouns  and  pronouns. 

"Do  you,  Ned,  quit  studying  so  loud,"  the 
girl  exclaimed  imperatively.  Her  accent  was 
faintly  foreign  like  her  face.  "You  drive 
everything  out  of  my  head  with  your  never-end 
ing  Ho,  Us,  Hi,  fimus,  fitis,  Hunt.  How  much 
longer  are  you  going  to  spend  on  that  one 
verb?  This  is  certainly  your  fourth  day." 

"Ask  her,"  murmured  an  older  boy,  not  far 
from  Beimels  own  age,  "how  much  longer  she 


14      rhe  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

expects  to  stick  on  that  dactylic  hexameter. 
Kemember  the  gerund,  Delme',  and  be  a  little 
meek." 

The  girl's  face  flushed  and  her  eyes  darkened 
with  a  swift  and  angry  sense  of  mortification. 
Her  lips  parted  as  if  in  hasty  speech  of  defi 
ance,  then  she  checked  herself,  biting  her 
lower  lip  with  keen  purpose  of  self-control. 
Something  boyish,  free,  and  unconscious  be 
longed  to  all  her  ways  and  motions. 

"Good  for  Delme' !"  cried  Tom  Da  vies.  "She 
has  kept  her  temper  twice  to-day  already." 

"As  if  I  had  not  kept  it  all  the  time,"  cried 
the  girl,  laughing  gaily  now — "and  yours  too. 
Now,  boys,  listen !  Let  us  be  sure  and  get  our 
lessons  over  in  time  so  that  he  will  go  on  with 
the  story  of  Sir  Perceval,  as  he  promised  yes 
terday.  I  love  beyond  everything  to  hear  him 
read  those  old  tales  of  knighthood  and  adven 
ture.  It  is  like  a  solemn  music,  and  his 
eyes  will  always  shine  like  stars  as  he  reads. 
He  told  me  but  the  other  day  that  it  has  long 
been  his  purpose  to  write  some  poem  of  King 
Arthur  and  his  knights,  which  maybe  is  cause 
for  his  care  to  read  us  Sir  Thomas  Malory. 


A  GARDEN  HOUSE          15 

Study  your  best,  boys,  that  we  lose  no  time  to 
day  with  doing  over  of  lessons.  For  me,  I 
have  that  Virgil  rarely  perfect  now.  If  he  but 
lets  me  recite  it  before  I  begin  to  forget !  Why 
does  he  not  come  in?" 

Again  Delme'  looked  from  the  window.  The 
black-gowned  figure  still  moved  slowly  down 
the  garden  walk,  the  sunlight  falling  full  on 
the  light  loosely  curling  love-locks.  The  head 
was  held  erect  with  chin  lifted;  the  hands 
clasped  behind;  the  attitude  expressed  ab 
stracted  but  by  no  means  dreamy  musing. 

"He  has  forgotten  all  about  us,  I  believe," 
sighed  Delme'  regretfully.  "He  thinks  of  noth 
ing  else  now  but  the  trouble  between  the  King 
and  the  Commons." 

"Good  luck,  then,  and  hurrah  for  the  Bish 
ops'  War!"  cried  small  Ned  Phillips  exult 
antly,  mounting  with  a  bound  to  the  table, 
where  he  was  about  to  turn  a  somersault  when 
a  knock  at  the  door  startled  them  all  to  sudden 
decorum.  An  instant  later  the  door  was 
opened  upon  a  scene  of  blameless  order,  all  the 
young  scholars  seated  in  their  places,  dili 
gently  intent  upon  their  tasks. 


16       The  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

"Methought  I  heard  some  strange  variations 
in  thy  paradigm,  Ned  Phillips."  The  deep  and 
rather  melodious  voice  which  spoke  the  words 
came  from  a  handsome  young  cavalier  to 
whose  costume  high  boots  with  spurs  and  a 
long  sword  gave  a  soldierly  character.  Salut 
ing  Delme'  by  removing  his  plumed  cap,  and 
bending  low  with  ironical  ceremoniousness, 
the  new-comer,  Master  Prosper  Unwin,  cap 
tain  of  a  London  trainband,  was  greeted  by  an 
exclamation  of  surprise  from  his  young  cousin. 

"When  did  you  return,  Prosper?"  she  asked. 
"You  were  supposed  to  be  in  Canterbury  on 
some  mysterious  errand." 

"Quite  true.  I  have  but  just  arrived  and 
come  now  post-haste  from  Trinity  Court  to 
fetch  you  back.  You  are  wanted,  and  that,  it 
must  needs  be  said,  right  early,  on  the  moment, 
in  brief,  if  it  please  your  master  to  grant  you 
leave.  Come,  sweetheart,"  and  he  held  out  his 
hand,  first  removing  a  heavy  gauntlet. 

Delinks  expression  betrayed  alarm  and  an 
noyance. 

"Indeed  I  shall  not  stir  a  step  to  go  home 
with  you,  Prosper!"  she  cried  with  manifest 


A   GARDEN  HOUSE  17 

vexation.  "I  know  perfectly  that  Master  Mil 
ton  will  not  excuse  me.  I  have  a  most  prodi 
gious,  a  most  important  lesson  prepared  for 
him " 

"And  she  looks  to  win  great  favour  over  the 
others  of  us  by  tripping  blithely  through  her 
hexameters  while  we  beside  her  stumble  and 
stammer  like  dunces.  A  shame,  Prosper,  to 
spoil  her  sport !"  It  was  Tom  Davies  who  thus 
interrupted,  the  son  of  Beimels  stepfather. 
Beimels  cheeks  grew  crimson,  and  she  lifted 
her  round  chin  with  a  small,  defiant  pout. 

"You  for  saying  unhandsome  things,  Tom," 
she  retorted ;  then  laughing  in  spite  of  herself, 
added:  "Still  you  are  rather  dunces,  that  I 
cannot  deny.  But,  Prosper,  say  what  need  is 
there  of  me  at  home?  Did  my  mother  send 
you?" 

"That  she  did.  In  the  matter  of  a  goose 
berry  tart  or  a  junket,  I  am  not  sure  which — 
to  be  prepared  instantly,  and  her  hands  over 
full  with  roast  and  boiled,  and  I  know  not 
what  all." 

Prosper  had  seated  himself  carelessly  on  a 
corner  of  the  study  table  and  faced  Delme* 


18       The  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

with  a  smile  of  whimsical  amusement  on  his 
noticeably  handsome  features. 

"But  what  is  it  all  about?"  cried  the  girl. 
"No  one  was  expected  or  bidden  to  dinner 
when  Tom  and  I  came  away  this  morning. 
Dr.  Davies  was  alone  in  the  surgery,  and  my 
mother  sat  spinning  in  perfect  peace  with  no 
body  but  the  cat  beside  her.  Even  you  were 
supposed  to  be  miles  away,  Prosper.  I  am 
glad  you  are  at  home  again,  but  you  can  be 
sure  I  shall  not  give  up  my  lesson  to  go  home 
and  make  sweetmeats  for  you  to  devour." 

"No  need  to  say  that,  Delink.  I  should  know 
better  than  to  flatter  myself  so  far,"  the  young 
soldier  replied  quietly.  "Do  you  fancy  I 
would  be  here  on  such  a  fool's  errand?  No, 
there  are  better  men  than  I  for  you  to  serve, 
a  delegation  from  the  Undercrofters.  Pastor 
Bulteel  and  old  Dr.  Primerose,  with  Philip, 
have  ridden  up  with  me  from  Canterbury  to 
treat  concerning  the  injunction  on  our  worship 
with  William  the  Fox,  or  even,  if  they  may 
come  so  far,  with  the  King's  majesty  itself. 
They  are  now  guests  at  the  house  and  there 
fore  my  Aunt  Madeleine  sends  for  her  dear 


A   GARDEN  HOUSE  19 

daughter  Delme'.  But  where  is  the  magister? 
It  appears  that  you  youngsters  are  having 
things  your  own  way  here  this  morning." 

"He  went  into  the  garden  for  a  time,"  said 
Tom  Davies  soberly,  "much  stirred  in  his  mind, 
we  think,  with  this  news  of  the  rioting  in  Lam 
beth  and  the  attempt  to  sack  the  Archbishop's 
palace." 

"I  have  but  just  heard  of  it,"  said  Prosper, 
his  face  clouded  with  perplexity;  "I  judge  it 
will  be  no  time  for  presenting  the  remon 
strance  of  the  Undercrofters.  But  whether 
they  are  come  in  vain  or  no,  the  gentlemen  are 
here  for  a  surety  and  must  be  served.  Come, 
Delme-." 

Prosper  drew  on  his  gauntlet  and  started 
for  the  outer  door  of  the  study,  looking  across 
the  room  at  Delme^  who  still  sat  immovable  at 
her  desk,  biting  vigorously  at  the  end  of  a 
quill  pen. 

"I  will  come  anon.  Will  you  be  so  good  as 
to  go  back  and  tell  my  mother  that  I  shall  be 
there  a  few  moments  later?  Hurry,  please." 

"I  shall  not  go  without  you,  DelmeY'  said 
Prosper.  With  this  he  quietly  drew  off  his 


20       The  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

gauntlet  again,  tossed  it  on  the  floor  between 
them,  then  folded  his  arms  across  his  chest, 
and  leaning  against  the  door  fixed  amused  eyes 
on  Beimels  face. 

The  girl  opened  her  book  and  for  a  moment 
attempted  a  pretence  of  studying,  but  the  tyr 
anny  of  the  glance  resting  upon  her  and  the 
gauntlet  thrown  down  made  her  visibly  un 
easy.  Looking  up,  she  cried  hotly : 

"Oh,  Prosper  Unwin,  why  do  you  always  in 
terfere  to  trouble  me?  Why  must  your  will 
ever  be  set  up  against  mine?  This  once  you 
shall  not  have  your  way.  I  tell  you  flat,  I  will 
not  go  until  I  choose." 

While  Delme'  was  thus  speaking,  her  eyes 
full  of  fire,  her  lips  haughty  and  yet  trem 
bling  with  their  own  defiance,  a  door  on 
the  side  of  the  room  opposite  where  the  young 
soldier  stood  was  opened  and,  unheard  by 
Delrne',  a  man  entered  behind  her  and  quietly 
advanced  to  a  position  from  which  he  saw  her 
face  and  heard  all  that  she  said.  It  was  John 
Milton,  Gentleman,  the  master  of  the  house 
and  of  the  study,  the  black-gowned  scholar 
who  had  just  now  paced  the  garden  walk  be- 


A   GARDEN  HOUSE  21 

low.  To  him  Prosper  Unwin  made  reverent 
salutation,  and  an  awe  of  his  presence  fell  in 
stantly  upon  the  boys  around  the  study  table, 
who  had  been  forgetting  their  tasks  in  their 
diversion  over  the  tilt  between  Delme'  and  her 
cousin. 

Milton  stood  now  the  centre  of  all  their  eyes, 
a  slender  man  of  singular  distinction  and  of  a 
youthful  grace  of  figure  which  his  scholar's 
gown  could  not  wholly  conceal.  The  extraor 
dinary  beauty  of  feature,  the  fair  purity  of 
colour  in  his  face  gave  a  first  impression  of  al 
most  seraphic  sweetness,  soon  followed  by  the 
stronger  sense  of  hauteur,  springing  from 
moral  and  intellectual  fastidiousness.  In  fine, 
the  man  was  through  and  through  a  spiritual 
aristocrat,  and  meanwhile  sternly  beautiful, 
like  an  archangel  bent  on  business  with  his 
dragon,  or  so  Delme'  Davies  thought  as  she 
suddenly  was  aware  that  other  eyes  than  Pros- 
per's  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  instantly  rose 
from  her  place  and  made  her  courtesy. 

"What  is  all  this?"  Milton  asked  the  ques 
tion  of  the  girl  curtly,  even  wearily.  Delme' 
felt  herself  as  one  of  the  Hebrew  children 


22       The   PEERLESS  PURITAN 

caught  in  their  perversity  by  Moses  coming 
down  from  the  Mount.  Still  she  was  un 
daunted. 

"I  want  to  say  my  Latin,"  she  said,  appeal 
ing  to  him  with  eagerness  for  his  support.  "I 
do  not  want  to  go  home  until  after." 

Milton  turned  to  Prosper,  a  few  words  from 
whom  explained  the  situation.  Then  to  Delme' 
with  a  slight  significant  gesture  of  his  right 
hand, 

"Come,"  he  said  and  smiled,  plainly  amused 
by  her  scholastic  ardour.  "Obedience  is  better 
than  sacrifice,  Delme'.  Go  to  your  mother  as 
quickly  as  you  can.  I  wTill  listen  to  the  Latin 
to-morrow.  Take  her  with  you,  Prosper.  She 
is  going  to  be  a  good  girl  now.  Stop.  Are 
you  not?"  There  was  a  note  now  of  sternness 
in  his  voice. 

Delme'  had  moved  but  laggingly  to  the  door, 
held  open  by  her  cousin,  her  face  clouded.  The 
master  caught  her  hand  and  drew  her  to  face 
him  squarely,  which  she  was  loath  to  do,  her 
eyes  being  full  of  passionate  tears  of  disap 
pointment.  His  face  softened  suddenly  with 
the  tenderness  of  an  intuitive  sympathy. 


•A   GARDEN  HOUSE  23 

"It  is  hard,  child,"  he  said  gently.  "I  un 
derstand.  You  had  worked  well,  and  now  you 
seem  to  have  missed  the  reward.  Do  not 
grieve.  That  will  be  yours  to-morrow — if  you 
have  fairly  won  it.  For  to-day  you  have  an 
other  lesson  to  learn,  a  harder  one, — to 
wait." 

"I  will  learn  it,"  said  the  girl,  lifting  her 
head  proudly. 

Without  reply  Milton  turned  back  to  his 
little  nephew,  Ned  Phillips,  speaking  to  him 
kindly  concerning  his  difficulty  with  the  Latin 
verb.  Delme'  passed  out  of  the  room,  took  her 
bonnet  from  its  peg,  and  hurried  down  the 
street.  Prosper  Unwin  started  to  follow  with 
a  curious  discomfiture  on  his  face  for  one  who 
had  won  his  battle,  however  small.  Probably 
his  discontent  arose  from  the  perception  that 
it  was  not  he  but  another  who  had  won  it.  At 
the  head  of  the  stair  Prosper  passed  Hubert, 
the  man-servant,  with  letters  for  Mr.  Milton. 
Of  these  the  one  which  that  gentleman  opened 
first  and  with  some  evident  eagerness  was 
dated  "Forest  Hill,  Oxford,"  and  signed 
Richard  Powell.  The  letter  reluctantly  in- 


24       We   PEERLESS  PURITAN 

formed  the  receiver  that  the  writer  was  still 
unhappily  and  most  regretfully  unable  to 
discharge  the  recognizance  of  five  hundred 
pounds  for  which  he  was  and  had  long  been 
Mr.  Milton's  lawful  debtor,  but  he  hoped  with 
better  times,  etc.  etc. 

Milton  stepped  quickly  to  the  stairs  and 
called  to  Prosper  Unwin,  who  at  that  moment 
was  leaving  the  house. 

"You  have  been  in  Oxfordshire  of  late, 
Captain,  if  I  mistake  not?" 

"Yes,  truly,"  replied  Prosper,  stepping  back 
to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  Mr.  Milton  looking 
down  at  him  from  above. 

"Did  you  chance  there  to  see  or  hear  aught 
of  a  Koyalist  gentleman,  Mr.  Richard  Powell, 
Esquire,  of  Shotover  Forest,  a  few  miles  out 
from  Oxford?" 

"Yes,  as  it  happens,"  Prosper  said,  and 
smiled.  "I  was  even  a  guest  of  Mr.  Powell's 
over  a  night  in  spite  of  my  Parliamentary 
sympathies,  being  urged  by  the  hospitality  of 
his  son,  young  Dick,  a  jovial  blade  whom  I 
have  known  off  and  on  for  a  year  or  two. 
They  keep  open  house,  sir,  at  Forest  Hill,  as 


A   GARDEN  HOUSE  25 

the  place  is  called,  and  live  in  very  pretty  style, 
I  promise  you." 

"Is  it  so?"  returned  Milton  musingly.  "Mis 
tress  Powell  I  have  heard  brought  some  for 
tune  to  her  husband  at  her  marriage." 

"That  may  account  for  the  fact  that  the  lady 
obviously  rules  the  household,  including  its 
master  and  a  dozen  children.  She  is  quite  the 
grand  dame,  I  assure  you,  sir;  and,  by  my 
faith!  she  has  a  pretty  daughter  with  a  will 
of  her  own  to  match  my  lady's." 

Milton  frowned  slightly,  glancing  again  at 
the  letter  in  his  hand. 

"Then  you  saw  as  I  judge  small  sign  of 
pinching  poverty  in  the  household  of  Mr. 
Richard  Powell,"  he  commented  as  if  ready  to 
dismiss  the  subject. 

Prosper  bowed. 

"None,  sir,  whatever,  but  plenteous  good 
cheer  with  much  merrymaking  for  all  the 
Royalist  gentry  thereabout.  If  you  have  no 
further  question  I  will  proceed  on  my  way  to 
Trinity  Court." 

"Thank  you,  Unwin,  and  good-day  to 
you." 


26       r/ie  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

John  Milton  returned  slowly  to  the  school 
room,  the  letter  from  Richard  Powell,  Esquire, 
thrust  out  of  sight,  and  no  trace  of  vexa 
tion  lingering  on  his  face  beyond  an  amused 
and  faintly  satirical  smile. 


THE   UNDERCROFT 

AIONG  the  "persons  of  qualitie"  who 
fled  as  refugees  to  England  from  reli 
gious  persecution  in  the  seventeenth  cen 
tury  was  Anthoine  Onwhyn,  cadet  of  the 
noble  house  of  Bersele  in  the  Netherlands.  Es 
tranged  from  his  family,  who  were  ardently 
Catholic,  by  his  own  Protestant  sympathies 
and  by  his  marriage  with  a  French  Huguenot, 
Onwhyn  gathered  together  such  goods  as  fell 
to  him  and  took  ship  to  the  English  coast, 
bringing  with  him  Marie  his  wife  and  two 
young  children,  both  sons.  The  younger  of 
these  sons,  now  in  his  early  manhood,  Prosper 
Unwin,  we  have  met  in  the  house  of  Mr.  John 
Milton  in  Aldersgate  Street,  London.  The 
Dutch  name  Onwhyn  had  been  quickly  angli 
cized  to  its  present  and  less  "outlandish" 
form  of  Unwin. 

The  father  of  Prosper  had  settled  in  Canter- 

27 


28      The  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

bury  with  hundreds  of  other  "distressed 
exiles"  who  had  there  formed  a  Huguenot  con 
gregation  of  such  proportions  that  permission 
had  been  given  them  to  hold  worship  in  the 
Crypt  or  Undercroft  of  the  great  cathedral. 
The  colony  of  refugees,  known  from  that  time 
as  "the  Undercrofters,"  or  as  the  "Strangers," 
grew  and  multiplied  in  such  degree  that  cer 
tain  cautious  burghers  of  Canterbury  at  an 
early  period  murmured  lest  they  crowd  out  the 
native  citizens,  with  their  strange  language 
and  manners  and  their  new  industries  of  weav 
ing  "taffeties,"  taffanies,"  "bayes,"  and  "pas 
sementeries."  To  these  fears  Parker,  Eliza 
beth's  great  Primate  of  Canterbury,  had  made 
the  wise  answer  that  these  "were  profitable  and 
gentle  Strangers  who  ought  to  be  welcomed 
and  not  grudged  at." 

From  Parker's  time  on  to  that  of  Arch 
bishop  Laud  the  Strangers  were  treated  by 
their  hosts  of  Canterbury  with  ungrudging 
kindness. 

Seeing  he  had  found  so  fair  a  haven  from 
the  storms  of  persecution,  still  sweeping  the 
Walloon  churches  on  their  native  soil,  An- 


The    UNDERCROFT  29 

thoine  Unwin  had  sent  in  the  year  1620  for 
his  wife's  brother,  Vital  Delon,  a  Huguenot 
pastor  of  Lille.  Being  hard  pressed  by  eccle 
siastical  authority,  Delon  had  much  difficulty 
in  escaping  pursuit,  but  made  shift  with  his 
young  wife  to  sail  from  Calais  in  an  open  boat 
by  night,  landing  after  many  perils  in  Dover, 
and  making  his  way  to  Kent  and  its  cathedral 
city.  Here  in  process  of  time  Delon  became 
pastor  of  the  Undercrofters,  and  here  was  born 
to  him  and  his  wife,  Madeleine,  a  daughter 
whom  they  named  Delme',  who  was  destined  to 
grow  up  fatherless,  Delon  dying  while  she  was 
still  in  her  babyhood. 

Madeleine  Delon,  who  was  a  woman  of  un 
usual  charm  and  beauty,  in  process  of  time 
was  sought  in  marriage  by  Dr.  Davies  of 
London,  a  Puritan  physician  of  some  distinc 
tion.  Dr.  Davies  was  a  widower  with  two 
married  daughters  and  a  young  son,  but  de 
spite  what  might  have  seemed  obstacles  Made 
leine  Delon  was  persuaded  to  accept  his  suit. 
Delinks  mother  was  withdrawn  from  the  Can 
terbury  colony  of  "Strangers"  by  her  mar 
riage,  being  thenceforth  domiciled  in  London 


30      The  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

in  a  goodly  house  in  Trinity  Court,  Saint 
Botolph's  Parish,  but  none  the  less  she  sus 
tained  intimate  relations  with  her  friends  in 
Kent.  Prosper  Unwin  formed  a  link  between 
the  home  in  Canterbury  and  that  in  London, 
having  followed  his  aunt's  family  and  joined 
the  militia.  He  was  now  captain  in  what  was 
later  known  among  the  Forces  of  the  City  of 
London  as  the  Red  Regiment. 

Meanwhile  Anthoine  Unwin  lived  with  his 
wife  and  eldest  son,  Philip,  in  the  house  in 
Mercery  Lane  in  Canterbury,  which  had  been 
their  haven  on  their  migration  from  the  Low 
Countries.  Philip  Unwin  had. been  sent  to 
Cambridge  for  the  study  of  Divinity  and  had 
followed  the  traditions  of  his  family  by  tak 
ing  the  place  of  his  uncle,  Vital  Delon,  as  one 
of  the  leaders  of  the  now  enormous  congre 
gation  of  the  Undercroft. 

Two  days  before  Christmas  in  the  year  of 
grace  1640,  the  London  coach,  lumbering  over 
Harbledown,  entered  Canterbury  by  the  West 
Gate  and  stopped  before  the  famous  inn, 
"Checkers  of  Hope,"  at  the  corner  of  Mercery 
Lane  and  the  High  Street. 


UNDERCROFT  31 


John  Milton,  coming  down  into  Kent  to 
spend  the  holiday  with  Philip  Unwin,  his 
friend  since  their  Cambridge  days,  alighted 
from  the  coach.  On  inquiring  concerning  the 
family  of  Master  Unwin  he  was  told  that  he 
would  find  the  house  just  then  closed,  the 
whole  family,  including  men-  and  maid-serv 
ants,  being  gone  to  the  cathedral  Uijdercroft 
for  a  solemn  Thanksgiving  service. 

Milton  walked  rapidly  through  Christ 
Church  Gate  to  the  South  Porch  of  the  cathe 
dral.  Above  in  Bell  Harry  Tower  the  big  bells 
were  chiming  curfew,  all  the  air  vibrating  with 
their  clangour.  But  on  a  lower  level  a  softer 
sound  became  perceptible  to  his  ears,  that  of 
voices  chanting  a  psalm  of  praise  in  unison. 
Led  by  this  music,  in  which  he  perceived  a 
thrill  of  singular  pathos,  Milton  walked  around 
the  silent  and  unlighted  cathedral  to  a  small 
door  in  the  south  transept,  which  stood  open. 
Steps  of  massive  masonry  led  from  this  door 
down  into  the  low,  vaulted  recesses  of  the 
crypt. 

Lighted  on  his  way  through  the  apparently 
endless  reaches  by  the  flaring  glow  of  cressets 


32      The  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

attached  to  the  stout  pillars,  the  newcomer 
soon  saw  before  him,  occupying  the  entire 
space  from  the  west  wall  to  the  Lady  Chapel, 
including  the  Black  Prince's  Chantry,  a  mul 
titude  of  at  least  a  thousand  folk,  standing 
in  ranks,  chanting  the  psalm,  the  melody  of 
which  had  guided  him  thither. 

The  flickering  lights,  casting  shapeless 
shadows  upon  the  groined  arches  of  the  low 
roof,  played  over  the  quaint  caps  of  the  wo 
men,  the  fair  heads  of  little  children,  and  the 
keen,  foreign  faces  of  the  men.  Upon  all  faces 
alike  rested  the  impress  of  devout  feeling  and 
tears  rolled  down  the  cheeks  of  many,  both 
men  and  women,  as  they  sang  in  their  native 
French  the  ancient,  exultant  chorus: 

"  'The  Lord  is  my  strength  and  song, 
And  He  is  become  my  salvation. 

Thy  right  hand,  O  Lord,  is  glorious  in  power, 
Thy  right    hand,  O   Lord,  dasheth    in  pieces    the 
enemy : 

Thou  in  Thy  mercy  hast  led  the  people  which  Thou 

hast  redeemed : 
Thou  hast  guided  them  in  Thy  strength  to  Thy  holy 

habitation : 


The    UNDERCROFT  33 

Thou  shalt  bring  them  in  and   plant  them  in   the 

mountain  of  Thine  inheritance, 
The  place,  O  Lord,  which  Thou  hast  made  for  them 

to  dwell  in, 
The  sanctuary,   O  Lord,   which  Thy  Hands  have 

established.'  " 

As  the  last  sentence  of  the  psalm  was  sung  a 
venerable  man  in  whom  Milton  recognized 
Guilbert  Primerose,  a  Huguenot  minister  re 
tired  from  the  leadership  of  the  congregation 
by  reason  of  age,  stood  forth  and  addressed  the 
people  in  a  voice  firm  and  sonorous  despite  his 
advanced  years.  He  cited  them  to  their  past 
history,  as  exiles  in  England  for  liberty  of 
conscience;  how  in  gracious  hospitality  and 
sympathy  for  their  distress  her  glorious 
majesty,  Queen  Elizabeth,  had  given  them  un 
der  sign  and  seal  her  grant  to  worship  in  this 
Undercroft,  made  dear  to  them  at  this  day  by 
the  memories  of  nigh  unto  a  hundred  years 
and  as  the  resting-place  of  their  beloved 
dead. 

"Here,"  cried  the  old  man,  in  rapid,  impas 
sioned  French,  "our  fathers  and  we  have 
worked,  wept,  sung  and  prayed,  worshipped 
and  prospered  until  William  Laud,  being  ex- 


alted  to  the  Primacy,  set  his  hand  to  it  that 
all  England  should  conform  to  those  very 
practices,  as  of  the  burning  of  incense  and 
candles,  of  the  worship  of  the  Virgin  Mary  as 
daughter,  mother  and  spouse  of  God,  also  of 
the  Real  Presence  on  the  altar  and  many  other 
such  things,  for  conscience  against  which  we 
and  our  fathers  fled  from  our  native  land. 
Known  is  it  to  you  all  that  that  same  William 
Laud  with  harshness  and  cruelty  did  threaten 
our  humble  congregation,  that  unless  they  did 
straightway  conform  to  the  ceremonial  which 
he  has  established  in  the  cathedral  above  our 
heads  and  throughout  all  other  parish 
churches  in  this  Isle  of  Thanet,  he  would  cast 
us  out  of  this  place  and  harry  us  out  of  the 
kingdom. 

"We  withstood  to  his  face  in  his  palace  of 
Lambeth  the  Archbishop,  I  and  Pastor  Bulteel 
and  our  younger  brother  Philip  Unwin,  who 
now  in  the  name  of  our  Lord  have  the  charge 
over  you,  but  from  Canterbury  we  received 
naught  but  contempt  and  rejection  and  fiercer 
threats.  So,  since  we  could  not  bend  our  con 
science  to  do  his  will,  we  have  waited  for  the 


UNDERCROFT  35 


day  when  once  more  we  should  be  made  home 
less,  but  lo,  the  Lord  God  has  turned  again 
our  captivity  and  we  are  like  them  that  dream. 
Yea,  the  Lord  has  stretched  out  His  arm  against 
the  enemy  of  His  people  and  his  place  is  vacant. 
William  Laud,  hooted  thro'  the  streets  of  Lon 
don,  has  been  carried  away  captive  for  his 
treason  against  freedom  of  worship  in  this 
fair  land  and  is  now  condemned  to  the  Tower. 
May  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul  !  My  breth 
ren,  let  us  pray  for  those  whom  he  and  such  as 
he  so  grievously  persecute." 

As  the  old  man,  his  strength  spent,  sank 
upon  a  bench  the  junior  minister  came  for 
ward,  a  young  man  with  dark,  serious  face 
and  brilliant  eyes,  clad  in  the  black  Geneva 
gown  with  white  lawn  bands.  Milton  recog 
nized  across  the  sea  of  heads,  and  despite  the 
uncertain  light,  his  Cambridge  comrade, 
Philip  Unwin. 

At  a  motion  of  the  young  preacher's  hand 
the  great  company  fell  on  their  knees  on  the 
pavement  of  the  crypt  and  joined  in  the  simple 
liturgy  of  the  Huguenot  church,  closing  with 
the  petition  : 


36       The   PEERLESS  PURITAN 

"We  especially  pray  for  our  poor  brethren 
dispersed  under  the  tyranny  of  Anti-Christ  or 
deprived  of  the  Bread  of  Life,  also  for  those 
who  are  cast  into  prison  by  the  enemies  of  thy 
Gospel.  Hold  Thou  their  hands  and  aid  them 
as  Thou  knowest  that  they  have  need  of  Thee." 

From  his  place  apart  in  the  darkness  encom 
passing  the  crypt  beyond  the  company  of  wor 
shippers,  Milton  looked  on  and  listened  with 
glowing  sympathy.  Strong  upon  him  was  the 
sense  that  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  the 
spiritual  successors  of  the  early  Christians  as 
they  fled  for  worship  to  the  Catacombs,  pur 
sued  even  there  by  the  red  shadow  of  perse 
cution.  Rome  was  the  persecutor,  first,  last, 
and  always  he  reflected: — Pagan  then,  Chris 
tian  now.  No  one  knew  better  than  he  since 
his  long  sojourn  in  Italy  how  near  Laud  stood 
to  the  Vatican. 

Yet  stronger  than  Milton's  historic  sense, 
however,  was  his  poetic  instinct,  and  to  this 
the  scene  before  him  made  powerful  appeal. 
At  a  height  little  above  the  heads  of  the  people 
when  standing,  along  the  ranks  of  pillars  ran 


The   UNDERCROFT  37 

the  mystic  phantasmagoria  of  the  carved  capi 
tals; — knights  speeding  their  steeds  to  com 
bat  with  diabolical  monsters,  cowled  heads  of 
monks,  coursing  hounds,  hideous  grotesques, 
alternating  with  luxuriant  intricacy  of  flower 
and  leaf.  To  all  this  weird  medley  of  images 
a  heightened  effect  was  given  by  the  red  and 
shifting  light  from  the  cressets,  throwing  them 
into  startling  relief,  or  leaving  them  lurking 
in  impenetrable  darkness,  like  creatures  of  the 
night,  hovering  near  but  felt  rather  than  seen. 
Below  on  every  side  in  sepulchral  silence 
stretched  the  endless,  desolate  vistas  of  the 
crypt,  broken  here  and  there  by  crumbling 
tombs  with  their  decaying  heraldry  and  rust- 
eaten  devices.  And  before  him,  bright  in 
the  embrace  of  the  stony  and  haunted 
gloom,  was  this  mass  of  impassioned  humanity, 
self-dedicated  to  the  Invisible  Divine,  pledged 
in  high  devotion  to  suffer  and  if  need  be  die 
for  the  sake  of  faith.  The  love  of  beauty,  of 
joy,  and  of  life  so  vivid  in  these  Strangers  was 
manifest  in  the  faces  of  the  youths  and 
maidens,  in  the  delicate  purity  and  beauty 
of  costume,  in  the  grace  of  form  and 


38      Me  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

bearing.  But  no  less  palpable  was  the  stern 
loyalty  to  conviction,  the  courage  to  die  for 
an  ideal,  which  could  be  discerned,  he  thought, 


women. 

Suddenly  as  he  watched  the  strange  scene, 
among  all  the  unfamiliar  faces,  one  face  be 
came  to  Milton  distinct,  not  so  much  because 
it  was  a  face  he  knew,  as  because  in  its  reli 
gious  passion  it  struck  his  imagination  as  type 
of  all  he  saw  and  felt  of  the  pathos  of  the 
hour.  The  face  was  that  of  Delnie',  the  step 
daughter  of  Dr.  Davies  and  his  pupil.  Milton 
knew  that  the  young  girl  had  come  with  her 
family  to  Canterbury  a  week  before,  but  her 
presence  here  was  at  the  moment  unlocked 
for  and  moved  him  strangely. 

Unconscious  that  any  eye  rested  upon  her, 
Delme'  knelt  in  the  shadow  not  far  from  where 
he  stood,  her  hands  clasped  upon  the  kerchief 
crossed  upon  her  breast,  her  eyes  lifted,  her 
head  alone  touched  by  the  light  of  a  torch. 
The  simple  loftiness  of  the  girl,  her  capacity 
for  daring  and  for  submission,  for  self- 
abasement  and  for  exultant  rapture,  shone 


We    UNDERCROFT  39 

through  the  luminous  face.  Milton  had  not 
known  before  that  Delink  was  beautiful,  but 
even  now  she  was  to  him  only  a  beautiful  child. 
As  he  watched  her  she  bent  and  kissed  the 
pavement  of  the  crypt  before  her  with  a  swift 
impulse  of  joyous,  devout  gratefulness. 

"Delme'!" 

The  apostolic  benediction  had  been  spoken 
and  the  stir  of  departure  ran  through  the  mul 
titude.  Delme'  lifted  her  head,  feeling  a  hand 
laid  on  her  shoulder,  and  saw  in  the  dusk  a  face 
above  her  bending  near,  like  the  face  of  an 
angel  by  her  first  thought.  Then,  rising,  she 
made  her  reverence  to  her  master  while  her 
heart  beat  violently  with  incomprehensible 
ecstacy  at  his  sudden  presence. 

"Come,  my  child,"  Milton  said,  "Philip  Un- 
win  sees  me  and  is  about  to  join  us.  I  will 
ask  him  if  we  may  go  up  into  the  cathedral,  for 
I  much  desire  to  see  it  in  the  light  of  this  Ad 
vent  moon.  Will  you  come  also?  You  will 
do  well  to  cool  a  too  eager  little  heart  in  the 
silence  up  yonder." 


IN  MERCERY  LANE 

THE  lofty  arches  of  the  cathedral  nave 
were  silvered  by  the  keen  light  of  the 
winter  moon,  the  uncoloured  windows  of 
the  clerestory  through  which  it  fell  detracting 
in  nothing  from  its  brilliancy. 

From  the  organ  in  the  rood-loft  waves  upon 
waves  of  solemn  music  streamed,  mingling,  it 
seemed  to  Deline",  with  the  waves  of  moonlight, 
light,  and  music  meeting  and  soaring  together 
in  mystical  splendour. 

Milton  was  at  the  organ  and  Philip  Unwin 
in  the  rood-loft  beside  him.  To  Delme',  crouch 
ing  in  the  choir  below,  both  were  lost  in  shad 
ows.  But  she  needed  no  interpreter  of  the 
music,  for  was  it  not  plainly  the  translation 
into  sound  by  the  hand  of  a  master  of  improvi 
sation  of  the  scene  just  now  enacted  in  the 
crypt  below? 

40 


IN  MERCERY  LANE          41 

"When  the  Lord  turned  again  the  cap 
tivity  of  Zion,  then  were  we  like  them  that 
dream.'" 

This  was  the  theme  on  which  the  or 
ganist  improvised  his  dramatic  sequence  of 
harmonies,  first  plaintive  lamentation  in  the 
minor  key,  then  the  power  of  deep  major 
chords  suggesting  mighty  deliverance,  and 
now,  at  last,  a  myriad-motived  dream  music  of 
release  which  took  Beimels  very  breath  in  its 
final  dizzy  sweep  of  joy.  That  the  choir  was 
dark  save  for  the  altar  light  she  had  forgotten, 
and  that  it  was  piercingly  cold  within  the 
cathedral  she  did  not  even  know.  Then  sud 
denly  the  music  stopped.  Philip  and  Mr.  Mil 
ton  coming  down  from  the  organ  found  the 
young  girl  in  the  choir  stall  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  and  supposing  her  chilled,  were 
aghast  at  their  own  carelessness  and  so  hur 
ried  her  with  them  out  of  the  place  and  all  to 
gether  ran  at  a  brisk  rate  down  Mercery  Lane 
to  the  Unwins'  house. 

Here  the  broad  low  front,  studded  with  fre 
quent  oriel  windows,  was  gay  with  ruddy 
candlelight.  They  three  burst  into  the  great 


42      The   PEERLESS  PURITAN 

keeping-room,  where  the  Yule  logs  blazed  in  a 
deep-breasted  chimney  and  Christmas  gar 
lands  hung  from  the  ceiling.  Mistress  Unwin, 
bright-eyed  and  motherly,  with  merry  lines 
about  her  eyes  and  deep  dimples  in  her  fresh- 
coloured  cheeks,  came  to  welcome  them,  speak 
ing  in  her  native  French  with  charming  vi 
vacity. 

John  Milton,  seated  soon  in  the  ingle-nook 
opposite  his  host,  stout  Anthoine  Unwin, 
found  himself  swiftly  transported  from  the 
solemn  impressions  of  the  cathedral  into  a 
world  of  fragrant  fireside  cheer  and  heartsorne 
radiance.  The  large  low  room  was  lined  with 
Flemish  cabinets  and  chests  rich  in  carving, 
their  polished  panels  reflecting  the  many  wax- 
lights.  In  every  window  blossomed  roses  and 
carnations,  forced  under  glass  to  gladden  the 
Advent  season.  These  were  the  pride  of  the 
host,  who  occupied  himself  with  importing 
from  his  own  land  rare  sorts  of  flowers  and 
coaxing  them  also  to  blossom  in  this  English 
soil  on  which  he  and  wife  and  children  had 
thriven.  Anthoine  owned  his  spacious,  well- 
ordered  house  and  the  deep  garden  behind  it, 


IN  MERCERY  LANE          43 

sloping  down  to  the  Stour,  being  one  of  the 
few  men  of  substance  among  the  Canterbury 
Strangers. 

Then  presently  the  company  gathered 
around  the  great  table  shining  with  its  hand- 
woven  and  home-bleached  "Hollands,"  laden 
with  Christinas  cheer.  And  only  one  was 
missing  from  the  company.  Prosper,  ex 
pected  early  in  the  day,  had  not  appeared,  but 
as  he  was  riding  a  roundabout  way  through 
the  Fen  Country  no  anxiety  was  felt,  and  the 
hour  was  given  over  to  gladness. 

Looking  and  listening  from  her  place  Delink 
marvelled  greatly  to  see  that  Mr.  Milton,  her 
grave,  preoccupied  master,  was  heart  and  soul 
of  all  the  wit  and  repartee.  The  warm  re 
sponse  and  cordial  sympathy  of  these  now 
around  him,  together  with  his  veneration  for 
their  character,  melted  the  barriers  of  his  re 
serve.  Over  every  turn  of  the  conversation 
his  genius  played  like  lambent  light,  in  deli 
cately  piercing  satire,  poetic  grace  of  expres 
sion,  or,  as  the  grave  political  crisis  was 
touched  upon,  in  bold  and  fearless  judgment, 
far  in  advance  of  the  conventional  opinions 


44      rhe  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

of  the  day.  The  others  applauded  their 
guest;  Delme'  worshipped  him. 

There  was  a  sound  of  hoofs  down  the  lane 
after  nine,  when  they  still  sat  about  the  table, 
but  a  little  withdrawn,  and  a  joyful  cry  wel 
comed  the  coining  of  the  younger  son.  A  serv 
ant  took  his  horse  and  Prosper  instantly  ap 
peared,  his  face  red  and  his  fingers  numb  with 
the  cold,  his  wadded  doublet  sprinkled  thick 
with  snow  but  his  spirits  at  their  top  bent  of 
gaiety. 

His  mother  and  aunt  received  the  gallant 
salute  of  their  young  soldier  with  serene  satis 
faction  and  innocent  pride  in  him.  But  when 
Prosper  bent  and  kissed  Delink  on  one  cheek 
and  the  other  with  a  cousin's  freedom,  exclaim 
ing  at  her  vivid  beauty,  which  indeed  just  then 
had  something  strange  and  new,  her  face 
flushed  high,  her  eyelids  flickered  and  fell,  and 
she  drew  back  hastily. 

Prosper  watched  her  for  half  a  minute  in 
tently,  a  sudden  shadow  on  his  own  face.  For 
Delme'  in  the  cathedral  just  now  had,  beneath 
the  mastery  of  music  and  of  the  musician,  in 
one  hour  gained  what  often  needs  slow  years 


IN  MERCERY  LANE          45 

to  accomplish,  even  a  woman's  awakened  na 
ture.  The  free  unconsciousness  of  the  child 
would  never  return  to  her.  Prosper  alone  of 
those  about  the  girl,  and  he  but  dimly,  dis 
cerned  this.  To  him  the  discovery  was 
sharply  bitter-sweet,  but,  as  was  the  man's 
habit,  the  bitterness  was  kept  to  himself. 

"Come,  little  cousin!"  he  cried,  drawing  up 
to  the  table  which  his  mother  had  quickly  re 
plenished  wTith  fresh  and  delicate  food:  "Sit 
you  here  close  by  my  side.  Let  the  rest  go  on 
with  their  wit  and  wisdom.  Pare  me  an  apple 
with  your  own  hand,  and  light  me  a  pipe  pres 
ently  with  one  of  those  flashes  that  your  eyes 
only  can  give." 

And  Delme'  obeyed  and  sat  at  the  table  be 
side  him,  but  all  the  while  her  eyes  slipped 
past  the  soldier  to  the  slender,  graceful  figure 
in  scholar's  black  withdrawn  with  Philip  to 
the  chimney  corner,  and  her  heart  was  in  her 
eyes. 

Milton  began  speaking  now  with  irresist 
ible  charm  of  his  recent  travel  and  sojourn  in 
Italy,  and  of  the  men  and  women  he  had  met 
there:  Galileo,  Cardinal  Barberini,  Manso, 


Marquis  of  Villa  and  anon,  with  sudden  ac 
cess  of  feeling,  of  Signorina  Lenora  Baroni, 
the  Koman  singer.  Beimels  whole  heart  lis 
tened,  shot  through  with  a  curious  pang,  to  the 
snatches  which  reached  her  of  his  praise  of 
the  beautiful  Italian  with  the  marvellous 
voice.  Milton  had  made  Latin  epigrams  in  her 
honour;  he  rehearsed  one  laughingly  to  Philip, 
and  Delme'  could  have  comprehended  every 
word,  but  Prosper  would  break  in  with  his 
commonplace  talk  to  Uncle  Anthoine  about 
that  country  squire,  or  gentleman  farmer  if  it 
pleased  you  better,  of  Saint  Ives  at  whose 
house  he  had  put  up  the  night  before.  Delme' 
had  seen  him,  this  Master  Oliver  Cromwell, 
once  when  he  was  up  in  London  for  Parlia 
ment  and  he  was  ill-dressed  and  had  a  large 
red  nose  and  sundry  warts  on  his  face  and 
shaggy  eyebrows.  Who  wanted  to  hear  about 
him  now  when  they  might  be  listening  to 
verses  on  the  divine  Lenora?  In  her  impa 
tience  Delme'  laid  her  hand  on  Prosper's  sleeve 
with  a  wistful,  impulsive  exclamation : 

"Oh,  please,  if  you  will  let  me  listen  just  for 
a  moment  to  what  Mr.  Milton  is  saying !" 


IN  MERCERY  LANE          47 

But  at  that  very  instant  the  master  himself 
broke  from  his  theme  and  cried  with  sudden 
ardour : 

"And  now,  Prosper,  you  have  had  all  the 
space  that  can  be  granted  your  huge  appetite. 
This  much  I  have  caught,  while  we  have  talked 
against  time  waiting  for  your  story,  that  you 
come  fresh  from  a  meeting  with  Master  Crom 
well.  Bring  over  here,  I  beg  you,  pipe  and 
armchair  and  acquaint  us  all  with  what  the 
Lord  of  the  Fens,  my  friend  Oliver,  says  of 
the  latest  signs  of  the  times." 

Beimels  lips  parted  in  an  irrepressible  sigh. 
So  the  theme  was  to  be  the  Farmer  of  St.  Ives 
after  all!  Should  she  ever  hear  Mr.  Milton 
speak  again  of  Lenora?  Who  could  tell  now? 

There  followed  serious  discourse  between 
the  men  of  stirring  deeds  and  grave  prefigur- 
ings,  such  as  the  Bishops'  War  in  Scotland, 
the  impeachment  of  Strafford,  the  imprison 
ment  of  Laud,  the  Papistry  of  the  Queen  and 
her  Court,  the  fatuous  perfidy  of  the  King,  the 
growing  sternness  of  temper  of  Parliament, 
and  the  new  names  "Cavalier"  and  "Kound- 
head"  given  now,  so  Prosper  said,  to  the  par- 


48       r/ie  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

ties  of  King  and  Commons.  But  more  often 
than  any  name  Delme',  in  the  corner  of  the 
great  chimney-settle,  heard  that  of  Cromwell 
spoken,  heard  his  words  repeated,  his  purposes 
discussed.  Half  impressed,  half  irritated  she 
made  bold  at  last  to  interrupt  with  a  question. 

"Pray,  Cousin  Philip,"  she  asked,  "why  is 
it  that  all  your  talk  is  of  that  Mr.  Cromwell? 
Surely  he  is  a  sad  sloven,  or  was  when  I  had 
sight  of  him." 

"Aha !"  cried  Milton,  "Delme'  has  not  heard, 
I  fancy,  of  Hampden's  word  to  one  who  called 
Cromwell  'sloven.'  'That  sloven,'  he  said, 
'whom  you  see  before  you,  if  we  should  ever 
come  to  a  breach  with  the  King,  which  God 
forbid !  will  be  the  greatest  man  in  England.'  " 

"It  was  well  said,"  cried  Prosper,  "and  if 
that  breach  comes,  as  I  no  longer  doubt  it  will, 
and  the  people  of  England  rise,  then  I  ride 
with  Oliver  for  land  and  liberty.  My  hand 
has  this  day  been  pledged  to  it." 

In  the  autumn  following  the  Irish  massacres 
shook  the  land  with  horror  and  shivered  the 
last  crumbling  remnant  of  confidence  in  the 
faith  of  the  King.  In  August  of  1642,  at  Castle 


IN  MERCERY  LANE          49 

Hill  by  Nottingham,  Charles  set  up  his  stand 
ard  of  battle  against  Parliament  and  people. 
The  engagement  at  Edgehill  followed  quickly 
and  all  England  groaned  at  the  tidings  that 
five  thousand  of  her  best  and  bravest  men, 
Cavalier  and  Roundhead,  lay  dead  on  the 
field. 

At  Edgehill,  Prosper  Unwin  rode  as  he  had 
foretold  with  a  regiment  of  Cromwell's  own 
raising,  and  at  the  end  of  the  day  he  was 
placed  in  command  of  a  troop. 

The  King  then  fell  back  upon  Oxford, 
thenceforward  the  Royalist  headquarters, 
while  London  remained  the  Puritan  capital 
and  the  conflict  went  on. 

Meanwhile  Milton  was  fighting  in  his  own 
way,  sending  forth  in  swift  succession  fearless 
philippics,  full  of  the  very  genius  of  Puritan 
England.  But  while  with  power  and  passion 
he  put  forth  pamphlets  which  stirred  tumult 
in  the  breasts  of  all  thinking  men  of  his  day, 
he  sat  at  his  desk  in  the  studious  quiet  of  the 
garden  house  by  the  Alders'  Gate,  in  outward 
calm,  surrounded  by  the  little  company  of  his 
young  scholars,  to  whom  he  continued  to  open 


50      We  PEERLESS  PURITAN 

the  stores  of  classic  learning  with  unabated 
zeal. 

Deline*  Davies  had  now  added  to  her  tasks 
under  Mr.  Milton  the  study  of  the  Italian  lan 
guage,  easily  learned,  as  her  master  himself 
said,  "in  any  odd  hour." 


BOOK  II 
BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS 


IV 

SHOTOFER 

TOWARDS  ten  of  a  fresh  April  morning 
a  small  troop  of  Royalist  cavalry,  dash 
ing  down  the  high  road  from  Aylesbury 
to  Oxford,  drew  up  hastily  under  Shotover 
Hill.  The  foremost  man  of  them  blew  a  shrill 
strain  on  a  bugle  slung  at  his  side.  Up  the  hill 
from  Oxford,  whose  towers  were  well  in  sight, 
several  Cavaliers  were  seen  approaching  at  a 
gallop.  The  central  figure  of  the  company,  a 
gentleman  in  light  armour,  lace  ruffles,  and  a 
plumed  hat  over  his  long  curling  hair,  had 
been  recognized  by  the  troopers  as  the  King. 
Horses  reined  up,  hats  off  and  swung  high  in 
air,  they  broke  out  in  rude  chorus,  sung  with 
a  will : 

"  'King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse :  here's  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles  ! '"  * 

*  Browning,  "  Cavalier  Tunes." 
53 


54     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

As  they  passed  the  troopers  the  Cavaliers 
gave  an  answering  cheer,  and  the  King  bent  to 
his  saddlebow  in  gratified  recognition.  Then 
with  the  thunder  of  hoofs  along  the  road,  each 
party  swept  on  its  opposite  way.  But  the 
sound  of  the  martial  song  and  cheers  had  set 
echoes  flying  along  the  countryside,  and  over 
a  turnstile  in  the  hedge  on  the  left  of  the  road 
peered  the  heads  of  half  a  dozen  maid-  and 
men-servants  who  had  rushed  breathless  from 
their  business  in  the  Grange  to  see  King 
Charles  and  his  troop  pass  by.  From  a  side 
gate,  directly  the  road  was  clear,  a  man  rode 
out  from  the  Grange  paddock  and  turned  his 
horse  towrard  Oxford,  or,  it  might  be,  towards 
London, — a  commonplace  horse  and  a  com 
monplace  man,  with  the  aspect  of  a  gentle 
man's  messenger,  the  aspect  furthermore  of 
one  who  has  not  prospered  overmuch  on  his 
errand. 

In  the  great  brick  Grange  itself,  the  home 
of  Mr.  Richard  Powell  on  the  slope  above 
the  highroad,  meanwhile,  no  little  confusion 
reigned.  The  house  door  stood  open  and 
through  the  hall  could  be  seen  the  stout  mid- 


SHOTOFER  55 


die-aged  Squire  himself  in  hunting  jacket  and 
gaiters,  bearing  gingerly  to  the  door  of  the 
great  parlour  at  the  right  of  the  entrance  a 
dish  of  eggs  cooked  in  the  shell. 

Inside  the  parlour  was  a  mighty  uproar  of 
men's  voices,  where  half  a  dozen  young  officers 
in  military  undress  were  cutting  wild  capers 
in  coolest  disregard  of  Dame  Powell's  sacred 
best  furniture.  Spurs,  arms,  pieces  of  harness, 
and  armour  lay  everywhere  in  careless  con 
fusion. 

The  Squire  was  met  in  the  parlour  doorway 
by  a  young  major  clad  but  scantily  in  ruffled 
shirt  and  knee  breeches,  O'Neale  of  the  King's 
main  body  of  horse,  who,  taking  the  dish  of 
eggs  from  the  hand  of  Mr.  Powell  with  some 
by-play  of  mock  ceremony,  said  patronizingly : 

"Excellent,  excellent,  my  dear  sir.  I  can  see 
through  the  very  shell  that  they  are  done  now 
exactly  to  our  minds.  You  will  forgive  the 
trouble,"  he  added  carelessly,  his  back  already 
turned  to  his  worried  host,  who  did  not  fail  to 
hear  the  comment  from  within,  "God  send  they 
be  warmed  through  at  least." 

"Mr.  Powell,  Mr.  Powell !"  A  woman's  voice, 


56     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

sharp  with  irritated  command,  rang  through 
the  hall  from  unseen  regions  at  the  rear  of 
the  house. 

The  Squire,  whose  ruddy  face  showed  much 
disquiet,  hurried  down  the  hall  and  by  a  stone 
stair  to  the  dairy.  Here  in  the  doorway  stood 
a  handsome  woman  of  generous  figure,  her  face 
flushed  high,  hands  on  hips  in  attitude  of  no 
small  determination. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Ann?"  cried  her  hus 
band  testily. 

"Matter!"  was  the  dame's  scornful  echo, 
"do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you,  Mr.  Richard 
Powell,  Gentleman,  of  Forest  Hill  and 
Wheatly,  Justice  of  the  Peace  of  Oxford,  are 
carrying  in  with  your  own  hands  the  break 
fast  to  those  swearing,  swaggering  soldiers 
who  sit  there  in  my  parlour  eating  us  out  of 
house  and  home?  I  tell  you  I  will  not  have 
it !  Where  are  those  lazy  wenches  whose  busi 
ness  it  is,  I  would  be  pleased  to  know?  What 
had  you  to  do  meddling  with  their  wTork,  pray 
tell?" 

"Every  wench  in  the  house  flew  down  to  the 
road  to  see  the  King  pass  just  now.  Did  you 


SHOTOFER  57 

not  hear  the  cheering?  It  stirred  my  blood, 
I  vow,  and  I  should  have  gone  likewise,"  added 
the  Squire  ruefully,  "if  it  had  not  been  that  the 
major  was  swearing  at  such  a  rate  over  the 
eggs  being  slack  done " 

"Slack  done  or  over  ddne  makes  no  differ 
ence,"  broke  in  Mistress  Powell ;  "my  husband 
is  not  to  serve  as  orderly  even  to  a  King's 
major.  Where  was  Mary?  Better  her  than 
you." 

"Nay,  mistress,"  replied  the  Squire  stoutly, 
with  a  tone  that  suggested  that  at  a  pinch  he 
could  assert  himself,  "not  better  Mary  than 
me.  Sooner  will  I  turn  every  jackanapes 
of  the  batch  out  of  my  house  neck  and 
crop  than  send  Mary  to  and  fro  at  their 
bidding." 

His  energy  had  its  mollifying  effect.  The 
good  wife  turned  her  attack  from  him  to  the 
maids,  who  had  left  the  milk  unskimmed,  the 
cream  unchurned,  the  pans  unscalded,  and  had 
ears  and  eyes  only  for  the  blast  of  a  bugle  and 
a  sword  dangling  at  some  fool's  leg. 

"You  are  sharp  set  this  morning,  Nancy," 
said  the  honest  Squire.  "  'Tis  but  human  na- 


58     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

ture.  Has  something  gone  wronger  than 
usual?" 

"That  it  has,  as  who  should  know  better 
than  yourself?  Is  the  man  from  London  gone 
yet  or  is  he  hanging  around  to  wring  a  few 
pounds  out  of  us  yet  for  his  master?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  John  Milton's  messenger?  I  saw 
him  clap  saddle  on  his  nag  some  time  since  and 
never  did  my  heart  sink  heavier  than  to  send 
again  such  answer." 

"Let  Mr.  Milton  keep  his  man  at  home  then ! 
He  must  know  in  times  like  these  there  is  no 
money  to  be  had.  The  best  we  can  do  is  to 
keep  a  roof  over  our  heads  and  a  joint  on  the 
spit,  with  the  King  quartering  his  roistering 
knaves  upon  us  in  this  fashion." 

"All  the  same  it  is  an  honest  debt,"  and 
the  Squire  looked  down,  gnawing  his  lip 
gloomily.  "A  debt  we  have  owed  the  Miltons, 
father  and  son,  I  like  not  to  say  how  many 
years,"  he  added  after  a  pause. 

"Very  well,  there  are  other  debts  we  owe," 
cried  Dame  Powell.  "How  about  the  debt  to 
your  own  daughter  of  a  proper  husband  and 
she  turning  seventeen  and  never  a  man  to 


SHOTOFER  59 

speak  of  marriage  to  her  for  lack  of  a  portion, 
poor  lass?  I  brought  my  husband  three  thou 
sand  pounds  when  we  wed,  but  where  is  it 
now?  Not  enough  left  to  buy  poor  Mary  sarse 
net  for  a  decent  gown,  and  she  bid  to  the  offi 
cers'  ball  at  the  King's  quarters  in  Oxford 
come  to-day  week.  Better  worry  yourself  over 
your  own  girl,  Mr.  Powell,  than  over  these 
Puritan  gentry  who  sit  at  ease  in  their  London 
houses  and  stir  loyal  folk  to  rebel  against  their 
lawful  King." 

"Mary'll  not  lack  for  a  husband,"  said  the 
Squire,  his  face  relaxing  to  his  natural  easy 
good-humour. 

In  the  fenced  garden  across  the  bit  of  turf 
at  the  back  of  the  Grange,  Mary  Powell,  com 
ing  from  the  poultry  yard  with  a  white  willow 
basket  on  her  arm,  was  at  the  moment  bending 
to  gather  certain  newly  opened  daffodils. 
Thus  busied  she  was  pondering  deeply  whether 
she  dared  send  in  the  daffodils  when  gathered 
to  the  parlour  for  the  officers'  regaling,  or 
whether,  should  such  action  come  to  her 
mother's  notice,  she  would  be  counted  forward, 
and  chidden.  A  deep  bow-window  of  the  great 


60     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

parlour  opened  upon  the  level  of  the  turf  and 
in  it  two  of  her  father's  uninvited  guests  had 
stationed  themselves,  perhaps  to  watch  her 
movements.  Mary  was  not  sure,  but  she  knew 
her  sprigged  gown  and  white  lawn  cape  were 
trim  and  taking  and  every  one  of  her  move 
ments,  if  not  unconscious,  was  pretty  and  kit 
tenish,  and  calculated  to  catch  a  bachelor's 
eye. 

"Deuce  take  her,"  cried  O'Neale,  wrapping 
the  window  hangings  about  him  to  cover  his 
undress,  "but  she  is  confoundedly  killing  this 
morning !  Where  the  devil  is  that  groom  with 
my  doublet  and  boots?  Does  it  take  all  the 
forenoon  to  brush  them?  Have  I  to  stay 
penned  in  this  dark  rabbit  hutch  while  lovely 
Molly  walks  alone  the  garden  paths  with  no 
one  to  follow?  Gad,  but  that  ruffled  sunbonnet 
becomes  her  to  distraction,  and  she  knows  it, 
the  rascal,  none  better." 

Not  many  minutes  later  the  valiant  major 
sat  on  a  narrow  garden  bench  beside  Mary, 
whose  hands  he  despoiled  of  her  heavy  garden 
ing  gloves,  which  done  he  counted  the  dimples 
in  the  small  plump  fingers  with  serious  atten- 


SHOTOFER  61 

tion,  then  got  possession  of  her  daffodils  and 
teased  her  into  a  tussle  over  them  in  which 
their  hands  mingled  perforce  freely.  Next,  the 
Cavalier  opened  fire  on  the  maiden  as  regarded 
the  officers'  ball  next  Thursday,  whether  she 
would  be  generous  and  grant  him  half  a  dozen 
dances,  but  here  he  was  surprised  by  an  April 
shower  of  tears  from  Mary's  blue  eyes.  For 
how  could  she  go  to  a  ball  in  the  King's 
quarters  and  all  the  Oxford  girls  in  silks  and 
satins,  and  she  with  no  other  frock  but  her 
old  white  mull  which  she  had  clear-starched 
with  her  own  hands  over  and  over,  until  it 
could  scarce  hang  together? 

Such  a  situation  called  for  tender  sympathy 
and  Mary  found  it  bestowed  to  an  even  em 
barrassing  degree,  since  the  major  found  it 
needful  to  kiss  away  the  tear  which  clung 
longest  to  the  peach  bloom  of  her  cheek,  a  duty 
only  properly  performed  with  his  arm  around 
her  waist.  Who  should  come  into  the  garden 
at  such  a  moment  but  Dame  Powell  herself, 
and  Mary,  in  wholesome  fear  of  her  mother's 
tongue,  sprang  up,  dropping  the  daffodils  all 
abroad  on  the  path.  The  major,  sauntering 


62     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

easily  away  toward  the  paddock,  whistled  his 
groom  to  saddle  his  horse,  and  in  a  trice  was 
seen  galloping  out  to  the  Oxford  road. 

Whether  her  mother  had  seen  the  little  at 
tentions  of  the  major  or  no  Mary  could  not 
determine.  Plainly  the  dame's  mind  wras  on 
larger  matters  and  ready  to  slide  with  un 
wonted  ease  over  minor  peccadillos.  She  had 
two  letters  in  her  hand  and  bidding  Mary 
take  her  place  again  on  the  bench  she  seated 
herself  beside  her  with  a  grave  face,  as  con 
cerned  the  major  saying  only : 

"It  is  high  time  to  stop  gallanting  with  these 
idle  fellows,  my  girl.  They  do  but  make  a  fool 
of  you  for  a  moment's  sport  and  the  last  thing 
they  think  of  is  marriage." 

At  this  Mary  coloured  and  tossed  her  head 
with  a  wilful  pout  on  her  pretty  mouth. 

"What  is  more,"  her  mother  continued 
sharply,  "is  that  you,  Mary,  with  ten  children 
in  the  family,  seven  younger  than  yourself, 
and  your  father's  affairs  going  from  bad  to 
worse  with  mortgages  eating  the  heart  out  of 
everything, — that  you,  the  eldest  daughter,  are 
no  likelier  to  provide  for  yourself  than  if  you 


SHOTOVER  63 

were  seven  in  place  of  seventeen.  Where  is  the 
Royalist  gentleman,  soldier  or  civilian,  who 
will  marry  a  worse  than  portionless  girl  in 
times  like  these?  And  little  you  care  of  how 
things  are  going  or  ask  what  is  to  happen 
next.  I  tell  you  the  King's  cause  is  losing  on 
every  side.  Hereford  and  Tewkesbury  are 
taken,  and  Reading,  hard  by  his  Majesty's  own 
chosen  headquarters  here  in  Oxford,  is  on  the 
point  of  giving  up  to  the  Roundheads." 

Mary  made  a  little  disdainful  motion  of 
her  head. 

"I  fancy  the  Roundheads  will  not  be  for 
coming  nearer  his  Majesty's  presence  than 
Reading!"  she  cried  scornfully.  "Major 
O'Neale  has  told  me  that  Essex  dare  not  press 
the  King  too  hard  for  very  shame,  with  his 
regiments  of  tapsters,  tinkers,  soap-boilers, 
and  such  like." 

"Fool,"  cried  her  mother,  "you  know  as 
little  of  what  you  prate  about  as  that  dancing 
doll  of  a  major  who  fills  your  silly  brain  with 
his  lies!  Tapsters  and  tinkers  or  no,  the 
Roundheads  are  better  soldiers  and  tougher 
than  our  own,  who  spend  their  time  dancing 


64     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

and  drinking  and  gallanting.  Your  father 
says  so  himself.  Our  men  do  not  hold  their 
own  with  them.  And  where  shall  we  come  out, 
I  wronder,  if  Parliament  wins?  I  see  nothing 
better  for  you,  if  things  go  on  this  way  longer, 
than  to  join  the  Nuns  of  Little  Gidding, 
where  you  will  at  least  find  honourable  shelter 
and  occupation  befitting  a  gentlewoman." 

Mary  Powell  turned  red  and  pale  by  turns 
in  angry  dismay. 

"The  Nuns  of  Little  Gidding?  Those  poor 
bleached  Protestant  saints  that  Mr.  Nicholas 
Ferrar  keeps  at  their  tasks  of  broidery  and 
lettering  from  morn  till  night,  with  prayers 
and  penance  from  night  till  morn  again?  You 
cannot  mean  that  you  think  to  put  me  in  a 
place  like  that!"  The  girl's  voice  in  anger 
rang  with  a  touch  of  the  sharpness  of  her 
mother's. 

"It  may  come  to  that,  I  promise  you,"  and 
Dame  Powell  compressed  her  lips  firmly  and 
shook  her  head  with  impressive  solemnity. 

"Civil  war  is  a  stern  thing,  and  these  are  no 
holidays  we  have  before  us." 

As  she  said  these  words  she  laid  open  on 


SHOTOFER  65 

her  knee  one  of  the  letters  which  had  been 
lying  loosely  in  her  hand.  Glancing  across, 
Mary  Powell  read  at  the  head  of  the  letter, 
"London,  St.  Martin's-le-Grand  Lane,"  with 
date  of  an  early  day  of  that  same  month  of 
April.  She  recognized  the  hand  of  her  aunt, 
Mrs.  Blackborough. 

"This  is  not  a  fresh  letter  from  my  aunt?" 
she  asked  impatiently. 

"No,  it  came  by  post  some  ten  days  since. 
I  read  it  but  indifferently  then,  being  pressed 
to  my  wits'  end  by  the  charge  of  such  a  family 
as  is  on  my  hands.  But  since  yesterday,  when 
a  messenger  came  from  Mr.  John  Milton,  now 
of  Aldersgate  Street,  with  this  other  letter  here 
requiring  of  your  father  some  payment  on  that 
old  debt  we  have  owed  so  long,  I  was  reminded 
of  it  afresh." 

"And  why,  pray?  What  can  my  Aunt 
Blackborough  have  to  do  with  that  terror 
of  our  lives,  that  monstrous  cruel  Mr.  John 
Milton?" 

"Monstrous  cruel  no  one  can  call  it  for  a 
man  to  try  after  sixteen  years  owing  to  collect 
what  your  father  says  is  more  than  a  just  debt. 


66      <  BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

For  a  fact,  Mr.  Milton  has  been  rather  lenient 
than  cruel,  since  he  might  have  forced  the  pay 
ment  long  ago,  seeing  his  claim  has  precedence 
by  law  of  all  other  claims  upon  our  lands  and 
goods.  Press  it  he  can  and  press  it  I  fear  he 
will  now  with  small  delay." 

Mary  looked  at  her  mother  surprised.  She 
seemed  almost  to  be  taking  the  part  of  the 
man  against  whom  she  had  been  wont  to 
storm. 

"Your  Aunt  Blackborough  lives  and  has  for 
five  years  just  within  the  new  Alders'  Gate,  as 
you  know,  if  you  have  heeded  what  she  has 
written  in  her  letters.  Mr.  John  Milton  has 
not  so  very  long  ago  taken  a  pretty  garden 
house  in  Aldersgate  Street  without,  also  in  the 
Parish  of  St.  Botolph.  So  you  see  they  are 
now  neighbours  and  with  good  liking  between 
them.  Mistress  Blackborough  writes  in  this 
letter  of  Mr.  Milton, — how  he  is  a  bachelor 
and  exceeding  learned,  though  by  no  means 
old  or  ill-favoured.  He  has  his  nephews  living 
with  him,  and  tutors  them,  and  with  them  as  a 
great  favour  a  few  others,  sons  of  his  friends. 
She  tells  of  how  high  an  honour  she  and 


SHOTOVER  67 

her  husband  esteem  it  that  he  consented 
to  take  their  Jack  on  for  his  Greek  and 
Latin." 

"An  honour,"  cried  Mary  tartly,  "why  an 
honour  to  have  this  sour  Roundhead  creditor 
of  ours  for  tutor?  I  wager  poor  Jack  gets 
drubbings  enough  at  his  hands.  I  can  see  no 
honour  myself  in  it." 

"Nay,  because  you  do  not  know  enough  to 
see!  This  Mr.  John  Milton  has  written  some 
very  pretty  verses,  your  aunt  says,  which  give 
him  no  small  reputation,  and  that  in  high 
quarters,  though  he  be  a  Puritan.  She  says 
he  is  truly  gently  bred  and  can  play  sweetly 
on  viol  and  organ.  It  is  her  persuasion  that 
if  I  could  meet  him  and  we  could  confer,  this 
grievous  matter  of  the  statute-staple, — that  is, 
our  debt  to  his  father  and  him, — could  be 
smoothed  over,  for  a  time  anyway.  God  knows 
something  must  be  done." 

"Then  you  think  of  journeying  to  London?" 
Indifferent  otherwise  to  her  mother's  anxious 
enterprise  Mary's  mind  kindled  instantly  to  a 
sense  of  new  freedom  suddenly  to  be  granted 
herself.  Possibly  her  quickened  interest  in 


68      'BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

this  question  betrayed  her,  for  Danie  Powell 
replied  promptly  and  curtly : 

"Yes,  I  purpose  to  start  day  after  to-mor 
row,  and  you  with  ine,  to  be  gone  ten  days, 
maybe." 

"I?"  cried  Mary  at  this  unexpected  turn, 
even  more  acutely  distressed  than  at  her 
mother's  mention  of  the  Nuns  of  Little  Gid- 
ding.  "Why,  mother,  I  never  can  go  to  Lon 
don  now.  'Tis  flatly  impossible." 

"And  why  then?" 

"There  is  the  ball,  you  have  forgotten, — on 
the  Thursday,  to-day  week." 

"You  could  not  go  to  it  if  you  were  here. 
You  have  no  frock  to  wear." 

Mary's  eyes  filled  with  hot  and  angry  tears. 

"Frock  or  no  frock,  I  shall  go!  There  are 
plenty  to  dance  with  me  were  I  to  wear  the  one 
I  have  on  this  minute." 

"You  know  better  than  to  talk  in  thwart 
fashion  to  me,  my  girl.  Shall  me  no  shalls. 
Not  but  I'm  sorry  enough  myself  about  the 
ball.  But  it  can't  be  helped.  You  can  see  for 
yourself  that  I  cannot  go  to  London  and  leave 
you  in  the  house  alone  here  with  these  wild 


SHOTO7ER  69 

young  blades.    Go  you  must  with  me,  and  go 
you  will." 

Whereupon  Dame  Powell  rose  from  the  gar 
den  bench  and  walked  back  to  the  house. 
Mary,  left  to  herself,  buried  her  face  in  both 
hands  and  sobbed  aloud  in  furious  but  help 
less  rebellion. 


V 

GENTLEWOMEN  IN  DISTRESS 

IN  Villiers  Street  off  the  Strand  there 
resided  at  the  time  of  the  Civil  War 
the  Lady  Margaret  Ley,  daughter  of  the 
first  Earl  of  Marlborough,  in  the  time  of 
James  the  First  the  Lord  High  Treasurer  of 
England. 

Lady  Margaret,  wife  of  an  accomplished 
gentleman  of  Parliamentary  sympathies,  made 
her  house  a  resort  for  the  leaders  of  advanced 
thought  of  her  day,  among  them  John  Milton. 
For  him  she  had,  as  says  the  ancient  chroni 
cler,  "a  particular  honour  and  took  much 
delight  in  his  company,  as  also  her  husband." 
To  this  lady,  Milton  with  his  fearless  spirit, 
his  passionate  devotion  to  liberty  and  his  mar 
vellous  lyric  gift,  was  the  Genius  par  excel 
lence  of  the  Puritan  party,  which  to  her  satir 
ical  turn  of  mind  often  appeared  heavy  and 

70 


GENTLEWOMEN  IN  DISTRESS  71 

prosaic.  A  welcome  always  awaited  him  in 
her  home,  and  in  herself  he  never  failed  to  find 
a  kindred  mind. 

^Returning  one  afternoon  in  April  from  a 
visit  to  Villiers  Street,  Milton  found  a  group 
of  Parliamentary  politicians  waiting  for  him 
in  his  study.  His  house  was  in  some  sort  a 
seat  of  the  liberal  ferment  and  many  of  the 
motions  of  the  famous  Long  Parliament  at 
Westminster  had  their  inspiration  in  the  se 
cret  counsels  of  the  poet's  study. 

The  matter  which  brought  his  present  visit 
ors  was  of  painful  interest,  being  the  suspicion 
that  William  Waller,  known  for  his  success  in 
the  wrar  as  William  the  Conqueror,  was  turned 
traitor  to  the  cause.  During  the  troubled 
discussion  Milton's  housekeeper,  Mistress  Han 
nah  Glynn,  brought  in  a  letter  which  she 
placed  in  her  master's  hand.  This  letter  Mil 
ton  broke  open,  glanced  over  with  perplexed 
impatience,  and  threw  aside.  When,  towards 
sunset,  the  company  broke  up  and  scattered, 
leaving  him  alone,  however,  he  re-read  this 
communication  with  some  interest. 

The   letter   was   from   Mrs.   Blackborough, 


72     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

mother  of  young  Jack,  his  pupil,  and  ran  as 
follows: 

"ST.  MARTIN'S-LE-GRAND  LANE. 
"MR.  JOHN  MILTON,, 

"Honoured  Sir — This  is  to  say  that  two 
gentlewomen,  relations  of  my  own  by  marriage 
and  much  respected,  are  at  this  present  in  my 
house,  being  come  on  a  visit  with  no  small 
distress  of  mind  in  a  matter  concerning  your 
self.  Should  you  be  minded  to  grant  them 
the  favour  of  your  presence  with  speech  upon 
the  occasion  of  their  solicitude,  I  would  name 
this  evening  at  early  candlelight,"  etc. 

It  was  with  quickened  curiosity  that,  agree 
able  to  this  summons,  Milton  set  out  within  the 
hour  to  visit  the  home  of  his  neighbours,  the 
Blackboroughs,  just  within  the  great  gate  of 
the  city.  Who  the  two  gentlewomen  in  no 
small  distress  might  be  he  could  not  anticipate 
or  guess.  The  massive  Alders'  Gate,  with  its 
sculptured  figures  of  King  James  riding  into 
the  city  for  his  coronation  on  the  outer  wall 
and  seated  on  his  throne  on  the  inner,  was 
fortified  and  closely  guarded  by  a  patrol  of 


GENTLEWOMEN  IN  DISTRESS  73 

Parliamentary  soldiers.  Passing  these,  Mil 
ton  paused  on  his  way  into  the  city  within 
the  narrow  portal  for  foot-passengers.  Up  the 
street,  called  Aldersgate  beyond  the  rampart, 
but  within  known  as  St.  Martin's-le-Grand 
Lane,  he  could  plainly  see  not  far  from  the 
famous  Bull  Inn  the  front  of  the  Blackborough 
house.  At  that  moment  the  door  was  opened 
and  a  youthful  feminine  figure  in  a  red  cloak, 
the  hood  of  which  was  drawn  over  her  head, 
appeared  upon  the  threshold.  Closing  the 
door  behind  her  this  person  now  hurried  down 
the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  Gate,  but, 
turned  aside  before  reaching  it.  With  the  evi 
dent  purpose  of  climbing  to  the  public  walk 
on  the  summit  of  the  rampart,  she  ran  lightly 
up  a  circuitous  path  winding  up  the  steep  bank 
at  a  short  distance  to  the  left  of  the  Alders' 
Gate. 

Something  in  the  young  woman's  bearing  of 
confused  lack  of  familiarity  with  her  sur 
roundings  at  once  suggested  to  Milton  that  she 
might  be  one  of  the  distressed  gentlewomen 
whom  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  meet.  Plainly 
she  had  left  the  house  for  a  quiet  walk  and  had 


74     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

chosen  the  city  rampart,  at  other  times  a  fa 
vourite  promenade  for  the  citizens  of  London. 
Under  present  conditions,  the  city  being 
fortified  and  the  trenches  full  of  rough  sol 
diery,  this  had  become  a  place  where  no  maiden 
might  walk  unattended.  Without  an  instant's 
hesitation  Milton  hastened  by  a  short  cut  with 
which  his  own  daily  walk  made  him  familiar 
to  mount  to  the  upper  level,  and,  by  inter 
cepting  the  stranger,  save  her  from  possible 
annoyance. 

They  met  a  moment  later  on  the  top  of  the 
rampart,  Mary  Powell  having  stopped,  breath 
less  from  her  hasty  climb.  Great  was  her 
surprise  to  see  directly  in  her  path  a  gen 
tleman  apparently  of  fashion  by  the  fineness 
of  his  dress  and  the  sword  swinging  by  his  side, 
who  saluted  her  with  respectful  if  somewhat 
distant  ceremony,  removing  the  hat  from  his 
long  curling  hair  and  bowing  with  all  a 
cavalier's  graceful  homage. 

Mary's  eyes  were  swollen  by  tears,  and 
her  cheeks  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  her  neat 
little  nose  were  chafed  and  reddened  by  in 
cessant  crying.  Convinced  now  that  she  was 


GENTLEWOMEN  IN  DISTRESS  T5 

one  of  the  tristful  gentlewomen,  and  not  a 
little  moved  at  the  sight  of  her  pretty  face 
and  of  a  distress  in  some  mysterious  way  con 
nected  with  himself,  Milton  addressed  her  with 
peculiar  gentleness : 

"You  have  come  up  here  for  the  fresher  air, 
madam,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,"  he  said,  "and 
I  approve  your  choice,  seeing  this  is  my  own 
favourite  walk."  As  he  spoke  thus,  Milton 
walked  slowly  forward  along  the  rampart,  the 
girl,  timid  and  trembling,  moving  on  by  his 
side,  uncertain  of  what  she  ought  to  do.  "I 
beg  you  will  permit  me  to  attend  you  for  a 
little  space,  seeing  you  may  not  walk  here  now 
alone  on  account  of  the  soldiery." 

As  he  spoke  Milton  pointed  down  to  the 
trenches  swarming  with  the  city  guards, 
rough,  noisy  fellows  whose  glances  at  her  own 
person  instantly  convinced  the  girl  of  the 
truth  of  what  the  stranger  said.  At  the  mo 
ment  they  passed  a  sentinel,  match-lock  on 
shoulder,  patrolling  the  rampart,  who  saluted 
her  companion  with  formal,  military  precision, 
after  a  manner  which  proved  to  Mary  that  he 
must  be  a  personage  of  no  small  importance. 


76     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

"Oh,  indeed,  sir,  indeed  I  am  greatly 
ashamed  that  I  should  have  made  such  a  blun 
der!"  she  cried,  her  chin  quivering  like  a 
child's  and  fresh  tears  springing  to  her  eyes. 
"I  am  just  up  from  the  country  and  know 
nothing  of  the  ways  here.  I  should  go  back 
at  once  to  my  aunt's,"  and  she  stopped,  glanc 
ing  up  humbly  at  Milton's  face,  the  ex 
traordinary  beauty  of  which  fairly  startled 
her. 

"No,  there  is  nothing  to  fear.  Do  not  cut 
your  walk  short,"  he  said,  and  walked  on, 
smiling  gravely.  "You  can  perfectly  well 
walk  here  if  some  citizen  known  to  the  regi 
ments  accompanies  you.  Without  doubt  you 
are  in  need  of  the  purer  air  to  which  you  are 
accustomed." 

"It  seems  as  if  I  should  smother,  shut  up 
all  day  in  that  dark  house,"  murmured  Mary, 
her  voice  broken  by  small,  pathetic  sobs.  "Lon 
don  is  so  terrible  and  I  am  so  unhappy." 

"This  is  quite,  quite  too  bad,"  said  Milton, 
divided  between  amusement  and  sympathy,  the 
latter  prevailing,  however,  as  his  eyes  rested 
upon  Mary's  golden  hair,  from  which  the  scar- 


GENTLEWOMEN  IN  DISTRESS  77 

let  hood  had  fallen,  and  her  innocent  girlish 
face.  "Could  you  possibly  tell  me  somewhat 
of  your  trouble?"  he  added  with  respectful 
gentleness.  "I  should  be  glad  to  make  Lon 
don  a  little  less  terrible  to  you  if  it  lie  in  my 
power." 

"Oh,  thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  said  Mary, 
greatly  touched  by  the  friendliness  of  his  tone, 
"but  that  would  be  impossible.  It  was  to  have 
been  to-night,  just  now,  with  me  away  off  here 
in  this  place  where  nobody  knows  or  cares 
about  me  and  no  young  person  about  save  only 
Jack  Blackborough,  who  is  so  rude  as  to  mock 
my  country  ways  of  speech.  And  all  the  rest 
will  be  dressing  now  for  it,  and  the  officers  in 
their  best  uniforms  and  the  bugles  piping  up — 
oh,  it  is  too  hard!" 

Here  Mary's  voice  broke  entirely.  A  glim 
mering  of  what  might  be  the  matter  dawned 
upon  her  companion,  who,  although  inclined 
to  smile  at  the  display  of  unrelieved  woe  for 
such  cause,  was  by  no  means  unresponsive  to 
an  appeal  like  this.  It  was  not  so  long  since 
he  had  himself  mingled  freely  in  the  masques 
and  revelries  of  young  lords  and  noblemen  at 


78     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

Harefield  and  Ludlow  Castles.  He  could  by 
force  of  the  vividness  of  his  imagination  put 
himself  without  effort  in  the  place  of  the  sim 
ple  country  girl,  heartbroken  at  losing  her 
climax  of  social  pleasure. 

"Truly  it  is  a  pity,"  he  said,  the  sincerity  of 
his  sympathy  breaking  down  Mary's  small 
stock  of  reserve.  Just  who  the  gentleman  was 
seemed  to  make  so  little  odds  when  he  was  so 
kind  and  when  he  wore  such  beautiful  black 
silk  stockings  and  shoes  with  silver  buckles, 
and  the  finest  ruffles  at  his  wrists  and  neck 
her  eyes  had  ever  rested  on,  and  had,  moreover, 
such  a  high-born  shape  and  such  a  high-bred 
way  with  him.  Even  the  Oxford  Cavaliers 
seemed  in  comparison  a  trifle  vulgar.  As  they 
walked  on  Mary  dried  her  tears  resolutely  and 
made  vigorous  effort  to  keep  the  quiver  out 
of  her  voice  and  converse  intelligently.  It 
was  a  melancholy  joy  to  find  some  one  in 
London  who  cared  to  listen  to  her,  and  the 
fresh  April  evening  wind  blowing  on  her 
cheeks  from  across  the  green  Artillery  Ground 
beyond  the  wrall  to  the  south  calmed  her 
feverish  excitement. 


GENTLEWOMEN  IN  DISTRESS  79 

"But  there  are  so  many  troubles,"  she 
sighed  plaintively,  wondering  as  she  looked 
over  at  Milton  if  her  nose  were  very  red,  and 
if,  in  this  light,  he  would  notice  that  she  had  a 
few  freckles  and  think  her  little  better  than 
a  milkmaid. 

"So  many?"  echoed  Milton  with  delicate 
irony;  "but  not  so  bad  as  this  of  losing  the 
dance?  That  would  be  impossible!" 

"No,  not  quite  so  bad,"  returned  the  girl 
innocently,  "that  is  for  me,  but  everything  is 
dreadful  now  for  everybody.  We  could  have 
stayed  at  home  and  I  could  have  gone  to  the 
ball  and  have  been  perfectly  happy  and  never 

have  had  to  come  to  London  at  all  if " 

Here  she  stopped  short  with  a  sudden  fear  that 
her  confidences  were  going  too  far  with  a  per 
fect  stranger. 

Milton  made  no  response,  and  they  walked 
on  in  silence  to  another  sentry  box,  then 
turned,  retracing  their  steps  in  the  direction 
of  the  Alders'  Gate. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  having  been  for 
some  time  studying  a  tiny  tendril-like  curl  of 
fair  hair  just  above  a  small  rosy  ear  and  find- 


80      'BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

ing  it  very  good;  "well,  as  you  began  to  say 
just  now,  you  might  have  been  perfectly  happy 
if— if  what?" 

Mary,  relieved  now  to  find  that  this  impres 
sive  individual  who  had  come  so  gallantly  to 
her  relief  from  an  embarrassing  situation,  had 
not  suddenly  dropped  all  interest  in  her  and 
her  small  affairs,  returned  to  the  discussion 
of  them  with  quickening  impulse  to  arouse  his 
sympathy. 

"Oh !"  she  cried,  with  a  plaintive  shake  of 
her  head,  "if  only  it  were  not  for  a  dreadful 
old  Roundhead  schoolmaster  somewhere  here 
in  London  who  worries  me  and  my  father 
and  mother  and  Dick  too  almost  out  of  our 
lives." 

"That  sounds  truly  heartless." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am  quite  sure  he  can  have  no 
heart,  and  I  call  him  monstrous  cruel  myself, 
insisting  on  being  paid  what  my  poor  father 
owes  him,  and  he  with  not  a  shilling  to  give 
me  for  ribbons,  much  less  enough  to  buy  me 
a  new  gown.  But  my  mother  says  monstrous 
cruel  the  man  is  not,  since  the  debt  is  a  just  one, 
and  owing  many  years.  So  the  worst  is  com- 


GENTLEWOMEN  IN  DISTRESS  81 

ing,  and  we  must  give  up  the  Grange,  though 
we  all  do  love  it  so  dearly,  and  mother  says 
I  must  even  join  Mr.  Ferrar's  Nunnery  at 
Little  Gidding," — here  Mary's  composure  dis 
solved  anew  and  she  stammered  on  between 
fresh  sobs, — "because  no  gentleman  will  think 
of  marrying  poor  me,  who  am  worse  than  por 
tionless,  and  they  cannot  support  me  at  home 
since  we  shall  have  none  soon, — unless 

"Yes.  Unless  what?  Please  tell  me;  there 
must  be  some  hope." 

"If  my  mother  can  have  speech  of  this  same 
creditor,  and  can  find  any  pity  in  him  so  that 
she  can  move  him  to  wait  still  a  little  longer, 
then, — then  perhaps — 

"Then  perhaps  Mr.  Richard  Powell's  charm 
ing  daughter  need  not  to  go  quite  yet  to  join 
the  Nuns  of  Little  Gidding?" 

As  he  spoke  Milton  was  standing  on  the 
steps  leading  down  to  the  street,  giving  his 
hand  to  Mary  to  aid  her  in  the  descent. 

"How  could  ever  you  have  found  out  my 
name?"  she  cried,  stopping  short  where  she 
stood,  her  blue  eyes  full  of  wonder  and  alarm, 
looking  straight  into  his  face  and  noting,  for 


82     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

all  her  confusion,  that  his  skin  was  fairer  than 
her  own  and  his  eyes  a  dark  grey  and  lighted 
strangely  as  from  within. 

"I  have  not  found  out  your  name,  sweet  Mis 
tress  Powell,"  was  Milton's  answer,  as  he  led 
her  in  spite  of  her  impulse  of  withdrawing 
on  down  to  the  pavement  below.  "I  have 
learned  very  much  in  this  last  hour,  and  some 
what  indeed  of  news  about  myself,  but  of  your 
name  I  am  still  in  ignorance.  I  should  guess 
it  to  be  Rose  if  it  fit  you." 

"Nay,  but  only  plain  Mary,"  sighed  the  girl. 
They  walked  on  up  the  street  in  the  twilight 
towards  the  Blackboroughs'  house,  seeing 
lights  in  which  Mary  exclaimed : 

"Out  upon  me  for  forgetting !  With  all  my 
talk  of  him  I  had  quite  forgot  it  was  this  night 
by  candlelight  that  my  mother  hopes  she  may 
have  speech  with  this  Mr.  John  Milton.  Oh, 
dear,  what  ever  shall  I  do?" 

"I  hope  you  are  not  frightened,"  said  Mil 
ton,  noting  the  girl's  changing  colour. 

"But  indeed  I  am.  You  cannot  think  how 
my  heart  flutters  till  it  clean  takes  my  breath 
from  me." 


GENTLEWOMEN  IN  DISTRESS  83 

"You  have  never  seen  your  father's  cruel 
creditor?" 

"No,  never,  but  ever  since  I  can  remember, 
his  name  and  his  claim  have  hung  over  us 
children  like  some  dark  cloud,  sure  to  bring 
storm  when  it  fell.  Dick  used  always  to  play 
at  fighting  him  in  the  lists  when  we  held  our 
tournament  games  in  the  big  barn." 

"I  can  fancy  it  would  be  a  case  of  'Death 
without  Quarter,' "  commented  Milton  with 
a  whimsical  smile. 

"But  to  think  he  may  be  coming  up  the 
street  at  this  very  minute!"  cried  the  girl, 
looking  up  and  down  St.  Martin's  Lane  in 
growing  agitation.  "I  must  hurry  and  keep  as 
much  out  of  sight  as  may  be  when  he  comes. 
It  may  chance  he  will  not  notice  me  at  all." 

"Do  not  delude  yourself  with  that  vain 
notion,"  said  Milton;  "I  dare  prophecy  he 
will  have  eyes  for  no  one  else." 

"Oh,  but  you  mistake  much.  He  is  no  gay 
and  gallant  bachelor,  but  as  I  said  a  crusty, 
fusty  Puritan  schoolmaster." 

"With  spectacles  on  his  nose,  a  wig  on  his 
head,  and  a  birch  rod  in  his  hand." 


84     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

Mary  laughed  at  the  picture  in  spite  of  her 
self.  They  had  reached  the  doorstep,  and  her 
hand  was  on  the  knocker. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  turning  then  to  give 
Milton  her  hand  with  sudden  pretty  shyness. 
"You  were  very  good  to  care  for  me  on  my 
walk.  Shall  I  ever  see  you  again,  I  wonder?" 

"I  think  it  partly  possible." 

He  bowed  low  and  walked  rapidly  away. 

Ten  minutes  later  Mistress  Blackborough, 
sitting  with  Mistress  Powell  in  the  prim  upper 
parlour,  both  women  tense  with  expectation, 
heard  a  knock  at  the  house  door. 

"Mary,"  called  her  mother,  opening  a  door 
into  an  inner  chamber;  "hurry  and  take  your 
place  in  here  at  once.  No  doubt  that  is  Mr. 
John  Milton  knocking  this  minute." 

"Yes,  of  a  surety,"  added  Dame  Black- 
borough,  "for  I  never  mistake  his  knock.  It 
is  like  himself  always  gentle  and  yet  im 
perative." 

A  long,  agitated  breath  escaped  the  lips  of 
Mistress  Powell. 

"Heaven  send  his  gentleness  be  uppermost 
to-night !  "  she  sighed. 


GENTLEWOMEN  IN  DISTRESS  85 

"Why  is  it  that  I  have  to  be  here,  mother?  " 
Mary,  coming  in,  asked  the  question  with 
nervous  petulance.  "What  good  can  I  possibly 
effect  in  such  a  matter?" 

"Pray  don't  argue  now,  child,"  her  mother 
answered  angrily.  "Your  aunt  and  I  know 
what  is  best.  For  mercy's  sake  don't  look  so 
frightened  neither.  I  should  think  you  ex 
pected  to  see  a  ghost." 

"Mr.  Milton  is  not  going  to  carry  you  off 
bodily,  Mary,"  added  her  aunt  with  a  cheerful 
laugh.  "Cheer  up  now.  You  may  be  the  very 
one  to  plead  your  father's  cause." 

"Mr.  John  Milton."  The  maid,  opening  the 
door,  announced  the  name  of  the  visitor,  who 
entered  immediately  and  made  respectful 
salutations. 

Mary  Powell,  standing  in  the  shadow  be 
yond  the  circle  of  the  few  twinkling  candles 
on  the  sober  centre  table,  grew  giddy  for  a 
moment,  next  cold ;  then,  as  the  visitor  crossed 
to  her,  bent  and  kissed  her  hand,  she  blushed 
a  rosy  red,  and  something  knit  tight  together 
in  her  throat. 

"Madam,"  said  Milton,  turning  to  Mistress 


86     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

Blackborough,  "as  I  came  up  the  stair  I  heard 
you  say  that  Mistress  Mary  Powell  might  be 
the  one  to  plead  her  father's  cause.  Will  you 
permit  me  to  say  that  she  has  done  this 
already?" 


VI 
A  DEBT  FOR  A  DOWRY 

4 *  1  \  7"HAT  is  the  name  of  that  book?" 
\\         "It  is  Tasso's  'Aminta.'  " 

"Who  is  Tasso?" 

"He  was  an  Italian  poet.  He  has  been  dead 
fifty  years." 

"It  looks  but  dull  reading.  Not  a  word  of 
sense  can  I  make  of  it.  What  do  you  read  it 
for?  I  saw  you  sitting  here  when  we  came  in 
above  just  now,  and  Mr.  John  Milton  here  on 
this  garden  bench  beside  you." 

"I  was  doing  my  lesson  with  him." 

"You  need  not  go  so  fire  red  over  it.  I  sup 
pose  there  is  no  harm  in  that,  though  I  should 
say  myself  that  you  were  much  too  old  to  be 
doing  lessons  with  a  bachelor  like  him.  How 
old  are  you,  then?  You  are  near  as  tall  as 
me." 

"Six  months  over  sixteen." 

87 


88     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

"I  am  near  a  year  more.  But  at  six 
teen  it  looks  ridiculous  to  be  reciting  lessons 
like  a  child  in  a  dame  school.  You  are  not  ill- 
looking  neither,  though  brown." 

"Thank  you  kindly.  Neither  are  you, 
though  pink  and  white." 

Mary  Powell  laughed,  then  sighed  mourn 
fully. 

"So  I  have  heard.  Oh,  me,  when  shall  I  lis 
ten  to  such  speeches  again !" 

"You  have  listened  to  one  now.  Does  not 
that  suffice  for  a  little?" 

"La!  you  know  what  I  mean.  Was  ever  so 
dull  a  place  as  London !  I  am  deathly  home 
sick  here.  Not  a  sign  of  a  gallant  of  age  be 
tween  Mr.  John  Milton  and  Jack  Blackbor- 
ough  have  I  seen  since  I  left  Oxford.  What 
do  you  do  for  beaux?" 

"I  have  never  had  them.  But  sure  one  would 
not  expect  gallanting  in  time  of  war  like  this." 

"That  shows  you  are  but  a  school-child. 
War  is  the  very  time !  I  have  had  six  different 
— suitors  you  may  not  strictly  call  them,  but 
followers,  and  all  soldiers,  since  the  war  broke 
out.  There  is  one  waiting  with  impatience  now 


A   DEBT  FOR   A   DOWRY       89 

for  my  return,  as  pretty  a  fellow  as  you  could 
ask  to  see — a  major  in  the  King's  army." 

"Why  don't  you  hurry  back  to  Oxford  to  see 
him,  then?" 

"Thank  Heaven  we  go  day  after  to-morrow. 
We  have  stayed  on,  my  mother  having  business 
with  Mr.  John  Milton,  besides  spending  every 
morning  in  the  drapers'  shops  in  the  Strand, 
turning  over  all  their  wares  and  buying  next 
to  nothing.  It  has  been  most  tiresome." 

"There  is  your  mother  now  with  Mistress 
Blackborough  in  the  window  of  Mr.  Mil 
ton's  kitchen,  and  Dame  Glynn  with  them !" 

"Who  is  Dame  Glynn?" 

"Mr.  Milton's  housekeeper.  Why  has  she 
taken  those  ladies  into  her  kitchen  and  pantry 
too  as  it  looks  from  here?" 

"Oh,  housewives  are  curious  about  such-like 
things.  It  was  because  I  knew  what  was 
coming  that  I  slipped  down  here  where  I  saw 
you.  I  suppose  the  good  creatures  will  exam 
ine  every  feather  bed  in  the  house  before  they 
are  through  and  every  cup  and  trencher  into 
the  bargain.  Where  can  Mr.  John  Milton  be, 
then,  all  the  while?" 


90      'BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

"He  went  in  to  greet  your  mother  and  aunt 
when  you  arrived,  but  it  can  scarce  be  expected 
that  he  wrill  follow  them  with  Dame  Glynn 
around  the  wash-house  and  still-room.  He  has 
matters  of  more  importance." 

Mary  Powell  yawned. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  wish  he  would  leave 
them  though,  and  come  out  here.  This  is  rather 
a  pretty  bit  of  garden  for  London,  but  the 
house  I  call  gloomy.  'Tis  the  Puritan  of  it." 

"Do  you  call  its  master  gloomy,  too?" 

"Nay,  he  is  as  fine  a  man  as  I  ever  looked 
upon,  and  wears  his  hair  like  a  proper  cavalier. 
If  he  were  but  under  thirty  instead  of  over 
there  might  be  some  sport  with  him." 

"How  old  must  a  person  be  to  strictly  suit 
you." 

"Anything  under  thirty  will  do." 

"So  it  wear  doublet  and  hose !  There  is  your 
mother  beckoning  you  from  the  window  of  the 
little  matted  parlour.  Good-bye." 

"What, — you  are  going?" 

"Yes,  I  must  run  home.  I  see  there  will  be 
no  more  lessons  to-day.  The  boys  are  dis 
missed  already." 


A  DEBT  FOR  A  DOWRY      91 

"You  live  very  near,  do  you  not?  May  I 
come  and  see  you  to-morrow,  Mistress  Delme' 
Davies?" 

"Any  time  you  like  and  kindly  welcome, 
Mistress  Mary  Powell.  You  will  find  me  in  the 
least  gloomy  house  of  Trinity  Court,  but  I  can 
promise  you  no  cavaliers." 

With  this  and  a  gay  little  laugh  like  a  bird- 
note,  Delink  disappeared  through  a  narrow 
door  in  the  garden  wall  leading  to  the  "entry" 
from  the  street,  while  Mary  Powell,  by  the  fra 
grant  garden  walk,  returned  to  the  matted 
parlour. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Mistress  Powell  being  in 
business  conference  with  Mr.  Milton  in  his 
study  adjoining,  Mary  sat  waiting  with  the 
housekeeper  and  Dame  Blackborough,  looking 
listlessly  from  the  window  down  into  the  quiet 
Aldersgate  Street.  Suddenly  she  straightened 
herself  in  the  chair,  pushed  the  casement  wider 
open,  and  tilted  her  head  to  catch  a  better  view. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  at  the  foot 
of  the  little  court  there  had  appeared  a  dash 
ing  young  officer  of  the  Puritan  horse,  as  she 
could  judge  by  the  boots  and  spurs  showing 


92      '  BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

beneath  his  long  cavalry  cloak;  his  hair  was 
worn  long  and  curling  beside  his  face,  like  a 
Cavalier's,  and  upon  his  head  sat  gracefully  a 
beaver  hat  with  broad  drooping  brim  and  a 
long  plume. 

With  growing  excitement  Mary  perceived 
that  the  interesting  stranger  had  his  eye  upon 
Mr.  Milton's  house,  as  he  advanced  to  a  point 
just  opposite  and  shading  his  face  with  one 
gloved  hand  gazed  fixedly  up  at  the  very  win 
dow  where  she  sat.  Mary  blushed  high  in  no 
small  flutter,  but  did  not  withdraw  from  the 
window  and  in  the  next  instant  the  soldier 
waved  his  hand  and  then,  placing  it  over  his 
heart,  bowed  with  glances  of  ardent  admira 
tion.  Upon  this  the  girl  laughed  and  tossed 
her  head  with  some  pretence  of  disdain,  but 
moved  a  bit  closer  to  the  window  in  her  curi 
osity  to  see  more  distinctly  the  face  of  her  ad 
mirer,  which  struck  her  as  ruddy  and  hand 
some.  At  this  he  made  response  in  a  gesture 
full  of  dramatic  fire  as  if  pleading  for  her 
favour,  which  moved  her  slightly  to  relent, 
and  even  to  wave  one  hand  coquettishly 
towards  him.  Between  terror  and  delight 


A  DEBT  FOR  A  DOWRY      93 

Mary  saw  that  upon  this  the  unknown 
dashed  across  the  court  to  the  house  door, 
which  she  was  unable  to  see  from  her  window. 
An  instant  later  the  ring  of  a  spurred  boot  on 
the  stair  told  her  that  he  had  actually  entered 
the  house  and  that  without  knocking. 

In  great  uneasiness  Mary  kept  her  eye  on 
the  open  study  door,  much  fearing  that  Mr. 
John  Milton  would  observe  and  disapprove  this 
intrusion  upon  his  domain  of  an  apparent  total 
stranger,  but  there  was  no  chance  for  remedy, 
as  the  parlour  door  was  speedily  thrown  open, 
the  bold  soldier  dashed  into  the  room,  and  re 
gardless  of  the  presence  of  the  women  fell  on 
one  knee  before  Mary,  whose  hand  he  clasped 
ardently  in  both  his  own. 

"Lovely  lady,"  he  declared  in  a  curiously 
muffled  whisper,  "I  have  followed  you  on  the 
street  day  after  day,  smitten  to  the  heart  by 
your  beauty.  Sure  no  man  could  set  eyes  on 
your  face  and  escape  unwounded.  Your  name 
I  do  not  know,  but  at  last  I  have  found  you  in 
your  home,  and  hear  me  you  must !" 

"But,  sir,"  admonished  Mary  in  great  excite 
ment,  "this  is  not  my  home  at  all.  I  beg  you 


94      'BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

will  hasten  to  depart  before  Mr.  Milton  ob 
serves  you.  I  cannot  listen  to  you  now — 
another  time — another  place " 

"But  listen  you  will — you  must — ah,  dearest 
maid, forgive  me  lit  is  but  your  beauty's  fault," 
with  which  the  gallant  soldier  rose,  threw  an 
arm  around  Mary,  and  even  pressed  a  kiss  upon 
her  cheek. 

Mary  gave  a  little  scream.  Milton,  who 
from  his  study  had  been  a  witness  to  the  whole 
scene,  strode  into  the  room ;  after  him  Mistress 
Powell  in  bustling  disturbance.  Laying  his 
hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  cavalier,  Milton 
whirled  him  around  to  the  light,  which  until 
now  had  not  struck  full  upon  his  face.  Twitch 
ing  off  the  broad-brimmed  hat  which  had 
shaded  it,  Milton  exposed  to  view  the  face  of 
Delme'  Davies,  now  recognizable  though  dis 
guised  by  clever  use  of  lamp-black  and  ver 
milion. 

In  rising  wrath  Milton  pointed  to  the  study 
door.  Kissing  her  finger-tips  merrily  to  the 
discomfited  Mary,  Delme'  passed  into  the  study, 
and  the  door  was  closed  upon  her. 

Mistress  Blackborough  and  her  guests  took 


A  DEBT  FOR  A  DOWRY      95 

a  somewhat  hasty  departure,  Mary  pouting 
and  sulking  with  mortification,  a  fact  which 
her  mother  was  at  some  pains  to  cover.  Milton 
apologized  gravely  to  the  girl,  for  the  unhand 
some  trick  which  had  been  played  upon  her, 
promising  condign  punishment  upon  the  of 
fender.  They  parted  with  an  invitation  from 
Mistress  Powell  to  visit  Forest  Hill,  an  invi 
tation  which  Milton  seemed  inclined  to  accept. 
Returning  to  the  study  he  found  Delme^ 
seated  demurely  at  the  long  table,  busy  with  a 
book.  Prosper's  cavalry  cloak  and  hat  lay 
upon  a  chair;  beside  them  the  top-boots  into 
which  she  had  made  shift  to  tuck  her  petticoat. 
Delme'  had  made  use  of  her  time  to  clean  her 
face  of  its  disfiguring  pigments,  and  to  fasten 
her  hair  tidily  under  the  little  lawn  Puritan 
cap  which  she  had  carried  hidden  in  her  bosom. 
Milton,  taking  a  chair  opposite  her  at  the  oak 
table,  looked  at  her  deliberately,  hiding  behind 
an  expression  of  stern  disapproval  his  surprise 
at  her  swift  transformation  from  the  dashing 
officer  to  the  quiet,  decorous  Puritan  maid. 
"You  may  close  that  book,  Delme'." 
Delme'  thought  she  had  never  known  any- 


96     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

thing  so  cold  as  her  master's  voice  as  he  spoke 
the  words,  but  by  some  oddity  of  temperament 
the  sense  of  his  displeasure  awakened  in  her 
a  spirit  of  frolicsome  defiance.  She  closed  the 
book  obediently,  clasped  her  hands  upon  it, 
and  looked  across  the  table  at  him,  not  at  all 
scared. 

"I  wish  you  were  a  boy,"  he  said  severely. 
There  was  a  pause,  Delme'  making  no  response, 
though  her  lips  twitched  with  the  effort  to  con 
ceal  a  smile. 

"Because  then  I  could  thrash  you  and  be 
done  with  it,"  continued  her  master.  "Now  I 
have  the  harder  part  of  trying  to  make  a  wilful, 
light-minded  girl  understand  what  she  has 
done,  which  from  the  very  fact  that  she  could 
commit  such  an  action  may  be  almost  impos 
sible." 

"You  might  try,  sir,"  said  Delme'  with  ap 
parent  humility.  "I  never  thought  of  troub 
ling  you  by  what  I  did." 

"But  you  did  trouble  me  grievously,  Delme", 
since  you  chose  to  flout  and  mock  in  most  un- 
maidenly  wise,  and  that  in  a  time  of  peculiar 
heaviness  and  sorrow,  my  guest,  a  gentle, 


A  DEBT  FOR  A  DOWRY      97 

sensitive  girl,  whom  it  should  have  been  your 
part  to  comfort  and  befriend." 

"But  she  was  so  silly,  Mr.  Milton!"  burst 
forth  Delme'  with  irrepressible  honesty.  "I 
could  not  resist  it." 

"You  will  not  speak  of  Mistress  Mary  Powell 
in  terms  like  that  in  my  presence,"  said  Milton 
haughtily.  "It  ill  becomes  you.  Though  near 
the  same  age  she  is  womanly  and  mature,  while 
you  are  like  nothing  but  a  boy, — and  a  naughty 
one  at  that." 

"That  may  be,  sir,"  said  Delme',  impenitent 
still  but  moved  to  speak  in  her  own  defence; 
"and  yet  I  do  not  count  myself  inferior  to  Mis 
tress  Mary.  For,  though  I  be  boyish  and  un- 
mannered  and  unskilled  in  coquetry,  you  shall 
find  some  day  that  I  am  as  true  woman  as 
she, — yes,  truer." 

Beimels  head  was  held  erect  as  she  said 
these  bold  words,  and  Milton  could  not  re 
press  a  smile  at  the  mingling  in  her  expression 
of  a  woman's  firmness  and  a  child's  wounded 
pride.  He  leaned  back  in  the  high  armchair 
and  watched  her  for  a  little  space  contempla 
tively  beneath  drooping  eyelids;  her  cheeks 


were  flushed,  her  bright  brown  hair  fell 
a  little  about  her  brow,  and  beneath  it  her 
eyes  flashed  with  their  gold-coloured  lights; 
some  strange  subtle  consciousness  baffling 
his  discernment  lurked  in  the  curves  of  her 
mouth. 

"You  are  not  well-behaved,  Delme',"  Milton 
commented  slowly ;  "you  are  not  even  properly 
penitent,  and  yet  I  shall  let  you  go  unpunished 
I  can  plainly  see.  It  is  impossible  not  to  for 
give  you." 

"I  shall  not  go  unpunished,"  returned 
Delme',  and  bent  her  head  that  he  might  not 
see  the  burning  tears  which  sprang  to  her  eyes 
as  she  spoke.  "I  shall  punish  myself.  I  am 
coming  here  no  more  for  lessons.  Is  not  that 
enough?" 

"No  more?    And  why?" 

Silence  for  a  moment,  and  then : 

"She  says,  Mistress  Mary  whom  you  rate  so 
high,  that  I  am  too  old  to  be  any  longer  les 
soned  with  lads,  and  I  partly  believe  it.  So  I 
am  coming  no  more." 

"I  shall  miss  you.  You  have  been  my  quick 
est  pupil  and  my Child,  do  you  think  you 


A  DEBT  FOR   A  DOWRY      99 

are  too  old,  surely?  We  shall  not  like  to  give 
up  the  Italian." 

Milton  leaned  forward  as  he  spoke,  his  arms 
upon  the  table,  one  hand  unconsciously  out 
stretched  as  if  to  take  hers,  but  suddenly  with 
drawn. 

"She  says  I  am." 

"She  may  be  right.  Yes,  it  may  be  better. 
Delme',  if  I  can  but  win  her  consent  it  is  my 
purpose  shortly  to  make  this  same  maiden 
whom  you  so  wantonly  offended  now — my 
wife." 

"Mary  Powell?" 

Delme'  spoke  the  words  under  breath,  all 
colour  for  the  moment  leaving  her  face  but  a 
brave  smile  on  her  lip. 

"The  same." 

"I  give  you  joy,  sir,"  and  she  held  out  her 
hand  gallantly  across  the  table.  "For  certain 
this  is  great  news,  though  something  sudden." 

"Sit  down  and  I  will  tell  you  how,  though 
the  flower  of  love  and  wedlock  may  blossom 
swiftly,  the  root  goes  far  down  and  is  of  many 
years'  growth." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  hear,  sir,"  said  the  girl 


100    "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

quietly,  resting  her  elbow  on  the  table  and 
shading  her  face  from  him  with  one  hand. 

"There  has  been  a  wretched  old  debt  in  the 
Milton  family  against  Richard  Powell,  the 
maiden's  father,  which  he  has  been  unable 
to  discharge.  The  dame's  errand  to  London 
just  now  was  to  plead  with  me  for  still  longer 
forbearance,  as  the  family  is  in  great  straits, 
so  that  if  the  matter  were  pressed  the  old  farm 
house  where  they  live,  near  Oxford,  must  be 
given  up,  and  other  grievous  things  will  be  the 
issue." 

"Did  Mistress  Mary  know  of  this  debt?" 

"Yes,  and  had  most  terrible  dread  of  her 
father's  creditor,  as  some  monster  of  cruelty," 
and  he  smiled  at  recollection  of  his  first  meet 
ing  with  the  maid. 

Delme'  laughed  her  quick,  blithe  little  laugh, 
but  her  hand  still  shaded  her  face. 

"Under  these  conditions,  as  you  can  guess, 
the  daughter  of  Richard  Powell  has  no  dowry 
and  stands  liable  in  these  uncertain  times  to 
meet  with  hardships  sooner  than  with  a  hus 
band." 

"That  is  clear,  sir." 


A  DEBT  FOR  A  DOWRY     101 

"Yes,  Delme,"  said  Milton  abruptly,  throw 
ing  himself  again  back  in  his  chair,  "you  see  it 
all.  I  need  not  tell  you  farther." 

"For  you  it  is  but  a  privilege  to  give  over  a 
debt  where  other  men  would  look  to  take  over  a 
dowry.  And  if  you  do  this  you  also  save  her 
you  wed  from  hardships  and  even  homeless- 
ness." 

"It  may  even  be.     I  would  like  to  do  so." 

"It  is  like  Arthur's  knights  in  the  chronicle 
of  Sir  Thomas  Malory  that  you  have  often 
read  to  us,"  said  the  girl  slowly.  "Yes,  it  is 
like  you,  sir." 

"And  the  maid  herself  is  a  rare  one,  when 
you  know  her  better; — housewifely,  homelov- 
ing.  It  pleases  me  to  see  one  so  womanlike, 

" ' — devout,  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure.'  " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Milton." 

"And  a  very  pretty  little  lady  to  look  upon, 
is  she  not,  Delm6?" 
"Very  pretty." 


fT^ 


VII 

A  LETTER 

Mr.  Prosper  Unwin,  Captain  in  the 
Regiment  of  Colonel  Cromwell's 


Ironsides.     In  camp  near  Grantham,  Lincoln 

shire. 

"DEAR  PROSPER:  — 

"We  hear  of  the  good  success  of  your  arms  in 
Lincolnshire  with  gladness,  since,  save  by  my 
Lord  Fairfax  and  Colonel  Cromwell  in  the 
North,  things  are  going  but  ill  with  our 
armies. 

"I  have  come  just  now  from  Mr.  John  Mil 
ton's  house,  where  I  have  been  on  truly  a 
strange  errand,  namely,  the  hanging  of  rose 
wreaths  and  myrtle  garlands  to  welcome  the 
bringing  home  of  a  Bride.  What  you  will 
think  a  yet  greater  marvel  is  that  the  Bride  is 
of  a  Royalist  family,  being  daughter  of  that 
Mr.  Richard  Powell  whom  you  wot  of.  But 
102 


A  LETTER  103 

you  must  by  no  means  think  that  Mr.  Milton 
has  gone  over  to  the  King  himself,  like  certain 
others,  because  he  rode  down  a  month  since  ( it 
was  at  Whitsuntide)  into  the  King's  quarter 
at  Oxford,  and  sojourned  at  Forest  Hill.  He  is 
staunch  Patriot  and  Puritan  as  ever,  and  as 
chivalrous  in  this  marriage  as  in  all  else. 

"You  will  smile  that  I  was  caught  by  the 
whole  wedding  party,  coming  in  two  carriages, 
while  Dame  Glynn  and  I  were  adorning  the 
Bride's  table.  There  seemed  many  of  them, 
and  for  Mr.  Milton's  studious  ways  rather 
noisy,  as  they  poured  into  the  house.  Still,  it 
will  not  be  for  long,  perchance  a  week.  Then 
Mistress  Milton  will  have  House  and  Husband 
to  herself,  and  God  grant  all  go  well.  She 
caught  me  as  I  fled  by  the  garden  door  and 
gave  me  a  hearty  kiss.  She  looked  fine  and 
handsome  in  a  pelisse  of  green  satin  with  pinks 
in  her  bonnet.  Sure  it  is  but  a  grim  time  to 
bring  a  Bride  to  London  in,  but  the  love  of 
such  a  Husband  may  well  make  all  else 
forgot. 

"It  will  be  a  joyful  day  when  you  come  back, 
bringing,  as  we  hope,  the  end  of  the  War  with 


104      'BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

you,  though  some  say  it  may  tig-tag  on  this  way 
a  twelvemonth  yet.  All  pray  for  you  both 
night  and  morning.  So  no  more  now  from 
your  loving  cousin. 

DELME  DAVIES. 

Trinity  Court,  St.  Botolph's  Parish, 
June  21st,  1643." 


"AN  IMAGE   OF  EARTH 


tt  T     ISTEN.    This  will  give  you  cheer,  I'll 
_j  wager.    The  words  are  your  husband's 
own,    Mistress    Milton,    and    the   music    his 
father's : — 


"  'Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair ; 
Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake, 
Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 
Listen  and  save.' " 

Delme'  Davies,  having  seated  herself  at  the 
organ  in  the  Aldersgate  Street  study,  sang  the 
lines  to  her  own  accompaniment,  her  voice 
pure  and  high  as  a  flute  note. 

In  the  window  overlooking  the  garden  at 
the  desk  formerly  Beimels  sat  the  bride  of  two 
weeks,  Mary  Milton,  her  head  bent  upon  her 
arms  crossed  on  the  desk-lid,  her  face  hidden, 
her  breast  heaving  with  long-drawn  sobs. 

105 


106     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

"His  father  is  coming  to  live  with  us,"  she 
murmured  dismally,  making  no  comment  on 
the  song  as  Delme'  rose  from  the  organ. 

Delme'  laid  her  hand  on  Mary's  shoulder 
with  soothing  touch. 

"You  will  love  old  Mr.  Milton  dearly;  no 
one  could  do  other.  He  is  most  gentle,  cour 
teous,  and  of  noble  beauty  of  person  like  his 
son." 

"I  never  bargained  to  wait  on  an  old  man 
when  I  married,  in  addition  to  my  husband. 
'Tis  unfair  to  make  me." 

Mary  Milton  lifted  her  head  as  she  spoke, 
some  energy  of  irritation  taking  the  place  of 
her  previous  abandonment  to  despondency. 
Her  face  was  red  and  swollen  with  weeping, 
her  cap  awry  and  hair  much  disordered. 

Delme'  suppressed  her  first  swift  scorn. 

"  'Tis  thought  by  others  to  be  an  honour  to 
wait  upon  Mr.  Milton's  father,"  she  said  coldly, 
then  added,  as  if  bringing  herself  by  compul 
sion  to  Mary's  point  of  view, — "besides  he  is 
really  of  not  the  smallest  trouble  in  the  house, 
as  I  know  from  what  Dame  Glynn  has  told 
my  mother  when  he  has  made  visits  to  London. 


" AN  IMAGE   OF  EARTH"    107 

Hubert  does  all  he  requires,  and  he  asks  only 
his  books  and  music." 

"What  Dame  Glynn  may  say  is  of  small  con 
sequence,"  cried  Mary  peevishly  at  this;  "a 
cross-grained,  whining  old  conventicle  gos 
sip!  Never  a  good  word  out  of  her  for  me, 
whom  she  looks  at  as  if  I  were  some  wandering 
hussy  Mr.  Milton  had  picked  up  on  the  road, 
set  on  his  saddle  before  him,  and  rode  home 
with." 

"Oh,  how  comic !"  laughed  Delrne'  merrily. 

"You  may  laugh,  but  you'll  find  old  Dame 
Glynn  on  her  winding  way  to  some  other  house 
ere  long,  for  abide  her  I  cannot,  singing  psalms 
through  her  nose  in  my  pantry  and  kitchen ! " 

"Old  Mr.  Milton  plays  heavenly  upon  the 
viol,"  interposed  Delink,  persevering  in  her 
peace-making  purpose.  "He  will  drown  out 
Dame  Glynn's  psalm-singing." 

"He  will  make  one  more  in  the  house  none 
the  less,"  said  Mary  sulkily,  going  to  a  glass 
to  arrange  her  hair  and  cap.  Looking  up  at 
the  dry  and  faded  nuptial  garlands  still  hang 
ing  from  the  beams  of  the  ceiling  she  said  dole 
fully: 


108     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

"I  suppose  I  may  as  well  take  down  those 
wreaths  you  placed  for  me,  Delme'.  The  leaves 
rattle  from  the  steins  if  one  but  touches  them 
and  the  blossoms  are  brown." 

"  'Faith,  I  should  think  it  full  time  they  were 
thrown  away.  Why  have  you  kept  the  poor 
things  up  till  now?" 

"Because  they  kept  me  still  in  mind  that  I 
was  a  bride,  which  dear  knows  I  am  like  to  for 
get  in  this  dull  house  with  nothing  doing  from 
morn  till  night,  and  I  suppose  it  will  be  yet 
worse  when  Mr.  Milton  begins  the  tasks  with 
those  lads  again.  To  think  I  must  give  over 
this,  the  one  fair  room  in  the  house !  and  poor 
me  driven  to  that  stupid  little  matted  parlour 
to  sit  alone  or  with  that  old  man  who  is  com 
ing,"  and  Mary  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  a 
fretful  frown  on  her  pretty  forehead. 

"Tell  me  of  your  bridal  doings,"  cried  Delme' 
in  something  like  desperation;  "this  is  my 
first  chance  to  hear." 

"Yes,  I  took  it  very  ill  that  you  did  not  come 
near  till  I  sent  to  fetch  you." 

"But  you'd  the  house  full  until  three  days 
ago,  and  a  perfect  riot  of  merriment." 


Mary  smiled  for  the  first  time  since  Delinks 
coming. 

"But  we  did  have  a  frolic  while  Dick  and  the 
girls  were  here !  "  she  cried.  "Oh,  with  young 
men  and  maids  like  them  all  is  different!  I 
thought  I  should  break  my  heart,  I  cried  so 
when  they  left.  I  clung  to  Dick  and  begged 
him  to  take  me  back  to  Shotover  with  him. 
You  know  I  did  ever  hate  London." 

Delme'  bit  back  the  words  which  sprang  to 
her  lips. 

"It  must  be  a  change,"  she  said  slowly  and 
with  an  effort,  which  the  other  did  not  note. 
"You've  such  a  great,  gamesome  family  at 
Forest  Hill.  Is  the  Grange  as  full  as  formerly 
of  the  King's  Cavaliers?" 

"Lackaday,  no,"  replied  Mary;  "my  father 
had  them  all  cleared  out  even  wrhile  my  mother 
and  I  were  here  in  London  at  my  Aunt  Black- 
borough's.  So  place  was  made  for  Mr.  Milton 
when  he  came  riding  down,  which  was  greatly 
to  my  amazement,  I  promise  you." 

"But  you  guessed  his  purpose  from  the 
first?  I  mean,  when  he  appeared  at  Forest 
Hill." 


110     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

Mary's  eyes  had  grown  bright  and  her 
pretty  pink  and  white  skin  showed  clear  again 
from  her  crying. 

"It  would  have  been  hard  to  mistake  it," 
she  answered  roguishly,  "after  once  he  had  set 
eyes  on  me,  my  dear.  There  was  that  on  his 
face  that  told  the  story.  He  was  a  gallant 
wooer  and  no  mistake,  and  knew  so  well  how 
to  come  forward  with  a  maid  that  I  could  not 
doubt  he  had  had  experience." 

"I  do  not  know,"  murmured  Delme'  vaguely, 
and  thought  of  the  beautiful  Lenora  Baroni. 

"It  was  a  pretty  time  for  wooing,  you 
know,"  continued  Mary,  warming  to  her 
theme.  "And  you  should  see  my  mother's 
garden  in  the  season  of  roses.  We'd  nightin 
gales  to  sing  for  us,  and  Mr.  Milton  now  and 
again  came  out  with  most  sweet  verses  in 
praise  of  me,  all  mixed  up,  you  must  under 
stand,  with  the  roses  and  nightingales.  That 
is  the  way  with  these  poems — not  quite  one 
thing  nor  another,  but  rather  a  mixture,"  she 
explained  with  some  seriousness  as  of  wide 
experience. 

Beimels  blithe  laughter  rang  in  reply. 


"AN  IMAGE   OF  EARTH"    111 

"Like  that  phrase  of  Mr.  George  Herbert,  <a 
box  where  sweets  compacted  lie/  "  she  com 
mented. 

"Yes,  rather  that  way.  I've  a  lot  of  them 
in  a  box  now  with  my  ribbons." 

Delme'  bit  her  lip  and  laughed  again. 

"We'd  a  quiet  wedding  in  the  parish  church 
of  Shotover,"  Mary  went  on  in  high  good  hu 
mour  now ;  "my  father  would  hear  to  nothing 
else  with  the  country  in  state  of  war  and  the 
King  hunted  from  his  throne." 

"What  was  your  wedding  gown?" 

"Of  white  taffeties,  which  you  must  know 
my  mother  bought  here  in  Cheapside  all  un 
beknown  to  me,  the  sly  thing,  when  here  in 
April." 

"So  the  marriage  was  really  settled  then," 
remarked  Delme'. 

"Settled  in  so  far  as  could  be  without  con 
sulting  me,"  replied  Mary  shrewdly;  "but  I 
was  not  for  holding  out  against  it,  having  had 
worse  threatened  me.  So  we  went  to  church 
with  only  a  few  neighbours  to  look  on,  and  it 
did  seem  a  pity,  since  all  said  a  finer  pair  had 
never  been  seen  in  the  parish.  I'd  white  posies 


112      'BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

in  my  bonnet,  and  a  veil  of  white  gauze  hang 
ing  from  it,  as  long  as  that."  Mary  rose  and 
pointed  to  her  knee. 

"You  would  look  sweetly!"  murmured 
Delme'  cordially. 

"And  for  the  bridegroom,"  Mary  cried, — 
"truly  he  was  more  beautiful  than  a  picture 
that  morning,  all  said.  He  was  pleased  with 
his  bride,  to  be  sure,  that  you  could  see  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  held  his  head  proudly,  and  his 
skin,  as  you  know,  as  fair  as  a  girl's." 

"My  cousin  Philip  Unwin  has  told  me  that 
when  he  was  in  Cambridge,  a  student  in  Christ 
Church  College,  they  used  to  call  Mr.  Milton, 
'The  Lady  of  Christ's.'  " 

"Because  of  his  beautiful  face?" 

"Yes,  and  also  for  his  being  of  such  a  spot 
less  purity,  Philip  says,  even  to  disdain  of 
aught  vulgar  whether  in  taste  or  in  morals — 
quite  above  the  common." 

"You  do  feel  it  in  him,"  said  the  young  wife 
with  a  touch  of  pride. 

"I  think  it  is  partly,"  Delme'  went  on  half 
timidly,  "and  so  my  cousin  thinks,  because  Mr. 
Milton  has  always  hoped  to  write  some  great 


"AN  IMAGE   OF  EARTH'     113 

thing,  even  beyond  those  poems  already  writ 
ten,  and  it  is  his  notion  that  only  a  high,  un 
tainted  mind  can  do  this." 

Mary  looking  attentive  beyond  her  habit, 
Delme'  added,  a  bright  flush  rising  in  her 
cheeks : 

"You  know  he  has  said  something  like  this : 
'that  he  who  would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope 
to  write  well  hereafter  ought  himself  to  be  a 
true  poem,'  and  also  that  'every  free  and  gentle 
spirit,  without  the  oath,  ought  to  be  a  born 
knight.' " 

"What  noble  speeches,  and  how  well  you 
have  learned  them,  Mistress  Delme'!"  said 
Mary,  smiling  archly ;  "I  see  I  shall  have  need 
to  keep  an  eye  on  my  husband's  charming 
pupil, — for  charming  you  are,  child,"  she 
added  condescendingly,  "and  much  prettier 
than  I  thought  you  at  first, — in  particular 
when  you  colour  up  as  you  did  then." 

"But  you  were  telling  me  of  the 
wedding,"  said  Deline',  embarrassed,  and 
rising. 

"Oh,  don't  be  for  leaving  me,  I  beg  of  you ; 
pity  my  dulness  with  Mr.  Milton  himself 


114      l  BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

gone.  He  set  out  for  Westminster  early  to 
have  speech  with  certain  of  those  tiresome 
Puritan  preachers  in  the  Jerusalem  Chamber." 

"He  is  coming  in  though  this  very  minute," 
said  Delink,  looking  from  the  window,  "and  go 
I  must." 

On  the  stair  she  met  Milton,  who  had  entered 
with  a  clouded  brow  which  turned  clearer  as 
he  recognized  his  wife's  visitor. 

"Delink,"  he  cried  joyously,  "the  first  time  I 
have  seen  you  since  Whitsuntide!  You  alone 
gave  me  joy  on  my  going  forth,  as  you  alone 
knew  the  errand  on  which  I  rode." 

"And  I  give  you  joy,  sir,  now  on  your  return. 
I  have  had  long  and  friendly  gossip  with  your 
wife." 

"Good  child!  You  are  getting  quite  the 
woman.  You  will  come  again  then,  and  come 
often?" 

"That  I  cannot  say." 

"And  why  not?" 

"I  have  much  to  do  at  home,  my  mother 
not  being  well  of  late." 

"But  my  wife  is  lonely,  little  one.  The 
house  is  too  still  for  her,  being  used  to  some- 


"AN  IMAGE   OF  EARTH'     115 

thing  different.  It  was  never  too  still  for  me, 
you  remember,"  smiling  humorously. 

"No,  sir,  nor  still  enough  when  we  young 
sters  ran  riot  on  occasion." 

"Was  I  very  cross-grained,  Delme'?" 

"Once  or  twice." 

"If  that  is  all  you  should  be  most  obliging 
now  when  I  ask  you  a  favour.  You  know  you 
deserved  every  scolding  you  had.  Will  you 
come,  then?" 

"If  you  wish  it,  sir,"  still  reluctant. 

"Remember,  then,  I  do." 

Milton  found  his  wife  fastening  her  cap  co- 
quettishly  to  the  coils  of  her  fair  hair,  and 
pouting  a  little  as  she  greeted  him.  There  was 
a  quick  questioning  anxiety  in  his  eyes  as  he 
entered  the  study  and  crossed  to  kiss  her  which 
gave  place  to  a  smile  as  he  saw  that  she  was 
in  fair  spirits  and  humour. 

"How  is  pretty  Molly,  then?"  he  cried. 
"Sure  she  never  looked  more  blooming." 

"What  is  this  I  hear?"  she  said  for  an 
swer,  and  sat  again  at  Delm6's  desk,  "and 
from  a  young  and  handsome  damsel  too,  about 
my  husband's  plan  to  write  some  great  thing, 


116    "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

book  or  poem  or  what  I  know  not,  since  it 
has  not  been  confided  to  me?" 

Milton  coloured  with  sudden  pleasure,  and 
his  eyes  kindled. 

"I  did  not  know  that  thou  didst  care  to  hear 
of  such  matters,  sweetheart,"  he  said  writh 
exquisite  gentleness;  "else  should  I  have 
talked  of  it  with  thee  long  ago." 

"To  be  sure  I  care.  What  else  have  I 
here  to  care  about?"  she  asked  wearily, 
then  took  from  the  desk  a  strip  of  Holland 
and  began  stitching.  "Why  do  you  not 
go  on?" 

Her  husband  had  drawrn  a  chair  beside  the 
desk  and  sat  thus  facing  her,  his  head  propped 
on  his  hand. 

"Ah,  my  Mary,  this  is  delightsome,"  he  ex 
claimed, — "to  come  home  no  matter  how  weary 
and  burdened  to  find  thee  sweetly  smiling, 
white-handed  and  wifely ;  to  sit  down  together 
to  talk  of  things  worthy  and  dear  to  us  both 
with  no  intermeddling  stranger  near.  It  is 
of  this  I  have  dreamed." 

Mistress  Milton  smiled  prettily  over  at  him, 
glancing  up  from  her  stitching. 


"As  concerns  this  project  of  mine,"  Milton 
continued  with  something  of  diffidence  and 
hesitation,  "I  may  confess  that  it  is  true  that 
for  many  years  it  has  been  my  hope*  by  labour 
and  intent  study  (which  I  take  to  be  my  por 
tion  in  this  life)  that  I  might  perhaps  leave 
something  so  written  to  aftertimes  as  they 
should  not  willingly  let  die." 

"I  am  not  much  for  books  myself,"  said 
Mary;  "they  give  me  headache  if  I  stick  long 
at  them." 

"It  is  not  needful  that  every  one  should  find 
them  alike  indispensable,  yet  is  a  good  book 
the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master  spirit  treas 
ured  up  to  a  life  beyond  life,"  was  his  earnest 
answer. 

"An'  it  be  so  great  as  all  that  to  write  a 
book,"  quoth  Mary,  "I  should  think  you  would 
be  in  haste  to  go  on  with  it." 

"And  so  I  was,  my  wife,  until  these  stormy 
times  came  on,  when  I  thought  it  ill  became 
me  to  withdraw  from  public  affairs  into  the 
quiet  and  still  air  of  studies,  delightful  and 

•  Here,  as  frequently  throughout  the  present  volume,  use  is 
made  of  Milton's  own  words. 


118     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

profitable  to  myself  but  in  no  wise  so  to  the 
nation  in  its  peril." 

"Then  you  have  given  over  this  book-writing 
after  all?" 

Milton  had  risen  and  crossed  to  his  own  pri 
vate  chest  of  drawers.  From  one  of  these  he 
took  some  sheets  of  manuscript,  closely  writ 
ten,  and  returned  with  them  to  his  seat  beside 
the  little  desk. 

"I  have  put  it  by,  sweetheart,  for  the  time, 
yet  is  the  plan  and  purpose  of  it  never  wholly 
out  of  my  mind.  A  year  ago  I  began  work 
ing  out  my  theme,  a  very  high,  majestic  one  it 
is,  Mary,  far  beyond  that  of  King  Arthur  and 
his  knights  which  I  had  once  considered.  I  was 
soon'  forced  by  public  affairs  to  lay  it  aside, 
but  here  are  a  few  sheets  written  with  some 
care.  If  thou  wilt  I  can  read  them." 

Mary  consenting  by  a  smile,  Milton  began  to 
read  his  stately  lines,  descriptive  of  night 
fall  in  Paradise,  beginning  with— 

"  Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  gray 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad." 

As  he  read  on  the  creative  enthusiasm  which 
had  first  inspired  him  in  the  writing  awoke 


"AN  IMAGE   OF  EARTH'     119 

again  and  took  possession  of  his  mind.  He 
grew  more  profoundly  impassioned  with  every 
line  and  his  voice  thrilled  with  his  intensity  of 
insight  and  exaltation. 

When  he  looked  up  presently  for  an  answer 
ing  enthusiasm  he  discovered  that  his  wife's 
head  had  dropped  upon  her  hand,  her  elbow 
resting  on  the  desk,  and  that  she  was  fast 
asleep. 

A  week  later,  old  Mr.  Milton  being  now  es 
tablished  in  the  house,  the  school  hours  with 
the  boys  going  on  as  of  old,  as  also  the  pro 
longed  conferences  with  the  Puritan  leaders, 
Mary  Milton  sat  alone  in  the  garden.  Above 
her  spread  the  branches  of  the  great  plane  tree 
on  the  bark  of  which  her  husband  had,  since 
her  coining,  carved  her  name.  A  crumpled, 
tear-stained  letter  had  fallen  on  the  grass  at 
her  feet,  and  her  sewing  lying  neglected  she  sat 
lost  in  gloomy  self-debating. 

"Molly!" 

It  was  Milton's  voice  calling  within  the 
house,  but  Mary  did  not  stir.  Presently  he 
called  again,  this  time  from  the  open  window. 


120    "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

Next  the  garden  door  opened  and  he  came 
down  the  shaded  walk,  plainly  seeking  her. 
Hearing  his  footsteps  approach,  the  young 
wife  straightened  herself  and  turned  a  cheer 
less  face  to  meet  him. 

"Dear,  I  have  searched  for  thee  everywhere. 
Those  gentlemen  are  gone  now  after  long  con 
ference.  Our  cause  has  had  a  heavy  blow  and 
I  a  bitter  loss;  Hampden  is  dead,  being  mor 
tally  wounded  at  Chalgrove.  I  have  been  shut 
in  the  study  all  day  and  need  air  and  lighter 
thought.  Let  us  go  for  a  walk  together.  I 
will  take  thee  to  my  friend  Lady  Margaret 
Ley ;  she  has  desired  thy  acquaintance  and  she 
is  a  most  gracious  woman  and  witty  also." 

Milton's  face  was  haggard  with  fatigue,  and 
with  sorrow  and  anxiety  which  he  strove  to 
conceal. 

"I  have  no  heart  to  walk  or  to  meet  these 
Roundhead  ladies,"  was  the  dull  reply,  Mary's 
hands  dropping  spiritlessly  at  her  sides.  "Go 
visit  your  Lady  Margaret  if  you  will.  It 
makes  no  difference  to  me  whether  I  am  alone 
a  few  hours  more  or  less." 

Her  husband   bit  his   lip;   one  hand  was 


"AN  IMAGE   OF  EARTH'     121 

clenched  tight  for  an  instant,  while  a  look  as 
of  inexpressible  weariness  crossed  his  face. 

"Thou  hast  a  letter,  I  see,"  he  said  kindly 
after  a  short  pause,  and  forced  a  smile.  "Is  it 
from  Oxfordshire?" 

There  was  no  reply.  Mary  turned  away  her 
head  and  tapped  sharply  with  one  foot  on  the 
ground. 

"Yes,"  she  burst  out  with  startling  vehe 
mence  an  instant  later,  "it  is  from  home,  and 
they  want  me  and  need  me  back,  and  I  know 
not  why  I  ever  left  where  I  was  so  happy  to 
come  to  this  prison!  They  tell  how  Robin, 
my  darling  pony,  misses  me  and  turns  his  head 
to  look  if  it  be  me  when  any  come  into 
the  stall,  and  how  there  is  no  one  to  pick  the 
flowers  and  the  gooseberries  are  ripe,  and  the 
King's  men  asking  where  is  pretty  Mistress 
Mary  and  when  will  she  be  coming.  .  .  .  And 
here  I  sit  day  after  day  and  nothing  to  see  but 
the  dark  walls  of  that  house  or  this  dusty 
strip  of  garden,  or  to  walk  out  and  watch  those 
horrid  Roundhead  soldiers  training  to  murder 
my  darling  Dick  if  they  can  and  all  my  friends. 
.  .  .  And  the  fighting  as  near  home  as  Chal- 


122     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

grove  now  and  you  caring  only  for  Hampden 
and  traitors  like  him !  Nothing  do  I  hear  but 
the  talk  against  the  King,  who  is  the  sweetest 
gentleman  that  ever  lived,  or  else  the  dismal 
groaning  of  the  organ  and  the  droning  of  those 
schoolboys'  tasks!  .  .  .  Oh,  Mr.  Milton  what 
do  you  want  to  keep  me  caged  up  here  for,  for 
all  the  world  like  a  poor  stupid  frightened 
bird  in  a  cage!  How  can  I  make  you  happy 
wrlth  my  heart  fit  to  break?  Let  me  go  down  to 
Shotover  for  a  few  weeks  at  least !" 

Milton  stood,  his  arms  folded  across  his 
breast,  his  head  dropped  forward,  his  lower 
lip  bit  hard  between  his  teeth,  and  let  the 
storm  break  around  him.  In  the  end  the  irony 
of  the  situation,  they  being  hardly  out  of  the 
honeymoon,  seemed  to  smite  him  keenest,  for 
he  smiled  a  curious,  inscrutable  smile  as  of  one 
partly  incredulous,  as  he  lifted  his  head. 

Not  long  after  he  kissed  his  wife  and  that 
tenderly,  and  told  her  that  they  must  devise 
brighter  days  for  her,  yet  try  not  separate  so 
early  even  for  a  visit;  also  that  war  made  all 
conditions  grim  and  could  but  bring  much 
heaviness. 


"AN  IMAGE   OF  EARTH'     123 

The  following  day,  however,  brought  a  fresh 
outburst  of  rebellious  complaining  from  Mis 
tress  Milton,  and  the  next  and  the  next.  The 
scholar's  house  full  swiftly  lost  its  daily 
beauty  of  studious  serenity.  The  ceaseless 
clash  of  an  obstinate  woman's  peevish  discon 
tent  with  a  man's  increasingly  stern  resistance 
filled  the  place  with  ignoble  discord. 

As  a  last  resort  Mistress  Milton  privately 
sent  a  messenger  to  Forest  Hill  with  word 
that  an  imperative  summons  for  her  to  return 
home  for  a  time  would  be  not  unwelcome. 


IX 
A  BRIDE  DELINQUENT 

IT  was  midsummer  morning.  Up  the  open, 
spacious  Aldersgate  Street,  in  the  day's 
early  freshness,  Delrne'  Davies  came  blithely 
tripping  from  Trinity  Court,  carrying 
on  her  arm  a  basket  of  Madonna  lilies, 
grown  in  her  mother's  garden.  Delinks  gown 
and  kerchief  and  close  Puritan  cap  were  as 
spotless  as  her  flowers;  her  step  was  elastic, 
and  the  delicate  bloom  on  her  cheeks  and 
the  light  in  her  eye  spoke  of  an  inner  hap 
piness. 

Nevertheless,  Beimels  spirit  was  not  as  buoy 
ant  as  her  step  as  she  walked  towards  the 
Milton  house,  nor  as  unclouded  as  the  lucent 
light  in  her  eyes.  She  was  bent  on  a  morn 
ing  visit  of  cheer  and  enlivenment  to  Mistress 
Milton,  in  accordance  with  the  promise  she 
had  given  her  former  master,  more  than  a 

124 


A  BRIDE  DELINQUENT     125 

week  before,  but  with  every  step  she  felt  her 
distaste  for  the  approaching  interview  in 
crease.  A  vision  of  the  month-old  wife,  for 
Mary  Powell  was  hardly  more,  sulking  and 
pouting  as  she  had  last  seen  her  like  a  spoiled 
child,  because  of  the  scholarly  quiet  of  her 
husband's  house,  came  persistently  before  her. 
The  prospect  of  an  hour  spent  in  coaxing,  flat 
tering,  soothing,  and  inspiriting  a  creature  so 
petty  as  not  to  perceive  and  glory  in  the  gen 
ius  of  the  man  who  had  stooped  from  so  great 
a  height  to  her  simplicity,  was  far  from  allur 
ing  to  Delme'.  She  bit  her  lip  as  she  recalled 
her  last  attempt  at  bringing  Mary  to  a  good 
humour  by  stimulating  her  childish  egotism. 
With  the  impulsiveness  of  her  nature,  for 
Delme'  was  no  saint,  she  declared  to  herself 
that  she  wras  tired  to  death  with  Mary  Powell, 
and  would  stir  not  a  step  to  give  her  pleasure, 
were  it  not  for  the  duty  she  still  felt  her 
self  owing  to  Mary  Powell's  husband. 

When  Delme'  reached  the  passage  leading 
from  the  street  up  to  Mr.  Milton's  house,  she 
was  surprised  to  see,  a  few  steps  beyond  the 
corner  where  she  turned  in,  the  untidy  servant 


126     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

maid,  (for  already  Dame  Glynn,  under  Mis 
tress  Milton's  brief  household  reign,  had  a  suc 
cessor),  standing  bareheaded  in  the  sun,  gos 
siping  with  another  servant.  Her  presence 
here  at  this  early  hour,  when  beyond  a  doubt 
she  should  have  been  bent  upon  her  business 
within  the  house,  was  surprising.  Sarah,  the 
maid,  however,  appeared  to  have  no  compunc 
tions  regarding  neglected  duty,  for  she  did 
not  turn  her  head  or  observe  Delme',  but  con 
tinued  her  talking,  which  was  loud  and  ex 
cited,  and  in  which  Delme',  as  she  passed, 
caught  such  phrases  as,  "and  she  but  a  month 
wredded,"  and,  "such  a  one  for  getting  her  own 
way  saw  I  never." 

Delme'  went  on  up  the  walk  to  the  house,  her 
previous  sense  of  annoyance  with  Mistress 
Milton  changed  into  annoyance  with  the  maid, 
who  could  thus  retail  small  slander  of  her 
house  to  the  neighbourhood.  The  great  door 
stood  halfway  open,  and  as  no  one  responded 
to  her  knocking,  Delme'  entered  and  ran 
lightly  up  the  stairs,  intent  on  reporting  the 
maid's  misconduct  as  quickly  as  possible  to  her 
mistress.  She  found  the  doors  on  all  sides 


A  BRIDE  DELINQUENT     127 

open  into  the  linen  presses,  the  matted  par 
lour  and  the  study,  but  no  person  was  in 
sight. 

For  a  moment  Delme'  stood  uncertain,  mar 
velling  at  the  prevailing  air  of  confusion,  at 
the  silence,  at  the  empty  parlour — above  all, 
at  the  empty  study.  Where  were  Mr.  Milton's 
scholars  this  morning?  Suddenly  remem 
bering  that  this  was  a  high  holiday,  Delme' 
ventured  into  the  study,  set  her  basket  on  the 
small  desk  once  hers,  and  looked  down  into 
the  garden.  There  she  saw  old  Mr.  Milton 
sitting  in  a  rustic  armchair,  with  pipe 
and  books,  a  white-haired,  venerable  figure. 
Delme'  loved  and  revered  the  old  man.  She 
decided  at  once  to  go  down  and  have  a  little 
chat  with  him  in  the  garden,  and  inquire  for 
Mistress  Milton.  What  more  likely  than  that 
the  young  married  pair,  still  in  their  honey 
moon,  had  gone  out  into  the  fields,  and  woods, 
for  a  lovers'  midsummer  holiday?  But  first 
she  would  leave  the  lilies  she  had  brought,  and 
on  the  long  table  across  the  room  stood  oppor 
tunely  a  tall  pewter  jug,  half  full  of  water. 

As   Delrne'   arranged   the  lilies,   their   tall 


128      'BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

graceful  spires  rising  like  torches  from  the 
jug,  she  noted  with  rising  repugnance  the 
dust  on  the  table,  the  dim,  unwashed  glasses 
standing  about  and,  her  glances  straying 
wider,  the  general  air  of  neglect  and  disorder 
pervading  the  room.  Where  was  Hubert? 
Had  he  too  been  dismissed  by  the  new  mistress? 
In  the  days  when  she  had  shared  in  Mr.  Mil 
ton's  instructions,  days  which  she  could  never 
recall  without  an  aching  access  of  desire 
stirring  within  her,  this  room  had  ever  been 
immaculate  in  its  dignity  of  fair  order,  like 
its  master,  whose  purity  of  person  and  belong 
ings  always  spoke  to  her  thought  the  purity  of 
his  mind. 

And  now ?  Delme'  thought  of  the  slat 
ternly  maid  below  on  the  street  corner  stand 
ing  arms  akimbo  with  flying  hair  to  gossip 
with  another  servant  concerning  the  affairs 
of  this  house;  of  the  careless  open  door;  of 
these  vacant  untended  rooms  with  their 
changed  expression,  their  curious,  subtle  loss 
of  old-time  grace  and  charm. 

"I  hate  Mary  Powell,  and  I  wish  I  had  never 
had  to  call  her  Mary  Milton,"  thought  Delnie' 


hotly.  "Would  that  her  foot  had  never  crossed 
the  threshold  of  this  house.  I  will  leave  her 
a  note  to  say  I  have  been  here,  and  then  I  shall 
count  my  duty  done,  and  cease  to  trouble  my 
self  further  concerning  her.  She  is  to  me 
antipatica  and  can  never  be  other  wise.  What 
can  Mr.  Milton  find  in  her?" 

With  her  girlish  impatience  thus  getting 
the  best  of  her  earlier  good  intentions,  Delme 
sat  down  at  the  little  desk  upon  which  she 
found  dusty  quills  and  half-dried  ink.  From 
her  own  pocket  she  drew  out  a  letter  just  come 
by  post  that  morning  from  Lincolnshire.  She 
had  read  it  through  once  and  had  found  that 
it  told  of  a  chance  that  Prosper  might  soon  or 
late  but  suddenly  come  on  business  for  the 
Army  to  London.  From  this  important  epistle 
Delme'  proceeded  to  tear  off  a  strip  of  blank 
paper  on  which  she  might  make  shift  to  write 
a  note  to  Mistress  Milton,  to  be  left  with  the 
lilies.  A  trace  of  the  girl's  old  defiance  was 
on  her  compressed  lips  as  she  bent  over  the 
desk.  What  she  was  about  to  write  wras  at 
heart  in  the  nature  of  a  half-implied  valedic 
tion  to  a  person  toward  whom  she  felt  irrecon- 


130     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

cilable  disfavour  which  the  sincerity  of  her 
nature  made  it  impossible  for  her  longer  to 
conceal. 

"Is  that  you,  Hubert?" 

Delme',  intent  on  her  note,  hearing  a  man's 
lagging,  spiritless  step  in  the  passage  behind 
her,  asked  the  question  without  raising  her 
eyes  or  turning  her  head.  Then  the  door 
opened,  the  step  approached  the  place  where 
she  sat,  and  she  sprang  to  her  feet  with  swift 
intuition  of  a  presence  she  had  not  expected. 
Never  had  she  known  her  master's  step  like 
this,  but  never  before  had  she  seen  in  his  face 
the  weary  apathy  which  accorded,  she  found, 
but  too  well  with  the  dull  step.  But  at  sight 
of  her,  rising  from  her  pupil  place  to  blush  and 
curtsey  in  girlish  confusion  upon  his  entrance, 
a  sudden  animation  spoke  in  Milton's  eyes  and 
a  smile  softened  the  compression  of  his  lips. 

"Delme'!"  he  commented  quietly,  almost 
musingly,  folding  his  arms  across  his  breast 
as  he  spoke;  "Delme',  bending  to  her  tasks 
even  though  the  others  take  to  their  heels  to 
make  holiday!  Sit  down."  Delme'  could  do 
no  other  thing  than  obey  him,  crushing  the 


A  BRIDE  DELINQUENT     131 

note  to  Mary  Milton  in  her  hand.  "Why  have 
you  not  gone  also,  child?  All  the  rest  are 
in  hot  haste  to  leave  me  to  my  empty  house. 
But  let  that  go.  Have  you  your  Greek 
ready?"  With  this  Milton  swiftly  assumed 
his  schoolmaster  tone  and  expression,  and 
lifted  his  hand  with  a  quick,  characteristic 
gesture  commanding  attention.  "It  is  Plato, 
I  believe,  this  morning,"  he  added  gravely, 
and  took  an  armchair  at  a  little  distance  con 
fronting  her. 

Beimels  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  face;  a 
tremulous  smile  played  for  an  instant  upon 
her  own  in  response  to  his  humour,  but  an  irre 
sistible  sweep  of  heartsickness  quenched  it 
presently  in  scalding  tears.  No  word  was 
spoken  for  many  minutes.  A  bumble-bee 
flung  in  at  the  window,  buzzed  loudly  above 
their  heads  for  a  moment,  and  swam  out  again. 
Some  one  entered  below  and  began  dealing 
noisily  with  kettles  and  coppers. 

"I  do  not  quite  comprehend  tears  from  you" 
Milton  spoke  at  length.     His  tone  was  ju 
dicial,  unemotional,  yet  Deline",  who  had  mas 
tered  her  weakness  and  was  again  able  to 


132     "BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

meet  his  look,  surprised  a  curious  moisture 
in  his  eyes. 

"I  cried  because  it  made  me  homesick  for  a 
moment,"  she  answered,  steadying  her  voice 
with  a  valiant  effort,  and  essaying  a  little 
laugh,  "ridiculously  homesick,  to  sit  in  this 
place  and  hear  you  speak  to  me  as  you  used. 
All  the  old  days  and  the  old  ways  came  back 
with  a  rush." 

"I  see.  Then  they  were  good  days,  good 
ways,  Delme',  to  you  also?"  Milton  asked 
gently. 

"Yes." 

"I  have  missed  them  curiously  myself ;  more 
than  I  looked  to  do."  He  broke  off  abruptly 
and  glanced  about  the  room,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  slightly,  and  gave  an  impatient  sigh. 

"You  do  not  find  us  in  very  dainty  trim 
this  morning.  Confusion  hath  made  no  mas 
terpiece  to  be  sure,  but  a  shabby  bungling  at 
it.  There  is  nothing  to  alarm  you,  Delnie',  no 
tragic  doings  here,  but  rather  most  stupid 
comedy;  no  heroic  scene,  but  a  mere  vulgar 
bit  of  genre  with  which  your  white  radiance 
has  scant  agreement.  If  Hubert  were  here 


A  BRIDE  DELINQUENT     133 

'twould  be  a  shade  better  on  the  surface,  since 
he  is  wont  to  have  an  eye  on  certain  niceties 
of  the  housekeeping,  but  it  was  needful  to  let 
him  go  down  to  Oxford  with  his  mistress." 

Beimels  eyes  opened  wide  with  wonder. 

"To  Oxford!"  she  echoed;  "Mistress  Milton 
has  not " 

"Yes,  the  wife  has  left  London  on  a  visit 
to  her  father's  house,  departing  yesterday," 
said  Milton  with  sardonic  brevity,  "to  return, 
I  am  informed,  at  Michaelmas.  I  suppose  such 
is  a  common  procedure  with  young  wives,  in 
particular  when  they  receive  letters  imploring 
their  return,  and  when  they,  poor  things,  are 
dying  of  dulness  in  the  house  of  their  hus 
bands.  Is  it  not  so?  I  have  been  so  much  of 
a  recluse  that  I  am  hardly  fitted  to  judge." 

"No  more  am  I,"  murmured  Delnae'  hur 
riedly. 

"At  first  I  will  admit  the  notion  of  so  swift 
a  separation  struck  me  unfavourably,"  he  pro 
ceeded,  his  biting  satire  disguised  in  a  cap 
tivating  gentleness;  "for  I  had  been  deluded 
by  a  number  of  superstitions  with  regard  to 
this  sweet  and  gladsome  state  of  matrimony, 


134      < BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

which  I  had  a  little  difficulty  in  ridding  my 
self  of.  But  the  work  went  forward  merrily, 
Delm^,  at  the  last,  and  two  days  since  I  gave 
the  word  for  two  nags  to  be  saddled  and 
Hubert  to  go  as  groom.  Faith,  such  speedy 
exodus  would  not  have  been  my  choice,  but 
one  must  judge  gently  of  a  timid  and  bashful 
spirit  first  set  free  to  stand  alone  amid 
strangers." 

They  had  both  risen  now  and  Delme'  had 
taken  her  basket,  making  ready  to  go.  She 
could  find  nothing  to  say. 

"The  house  is  empty,  it  is  dusty  and  dis 
ordered,  as  you  see," — and  Milton  raised  his 
eyebrows  and  made  an  expressive  motion  with 

both  hands, — "but "  again  he  broke  off. 

They  had  reached  the  door  now,  which  he  held 
open  for  her;  "There  is  surcease  of  perpetual 
distemper,  little  friend,"  he  added  haughtily, 
with  a  brilliant,  bitter  smile,  "and  at  least 
it  is  still" 

"It  will  all  be  better  henceforward,"  es 
sayed  Delme'  boldly,  discerning  that  here  had 
been  severe  strife  and  believing  scarcely  at  all 
in  what  she  said;  "when  Mistress  Milton  is 


A  BRIDE  DELINQUENT     135 

away  she  will  learn,  better  than  she  felt  when 
here,  how  strong  the  ties  are  that  bind  her 
to  her  home, — to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Milton  gravely,  albeit  a 
faintly  cynical  smile  played  about  his  mouth; 
"that  is  really,  I  should  think,  the  very  gen 
tlest  and  kindest  word  could  be  given  a  man 
in  case  like  mine.  A  moment,  Delme' — those 
lilies!  They  were  not  here  before  you  came, 
surely.  Nothing  was  here  then  but  dust  and 
ashes.  You  can  make  even  a  desert  like  this 
blossom,  then.  But  for  whom  did  you  bring 
them?  For  my " 

"For  my  master,"  said  Delme',  her  eyes 
flashing,  "for  him  and  for  nobody  else,  and  I 
would  bring  him  everything  bright  and  noble 
and  precious  in  this  whole  world,  if  it  were 
mine,  to  give  him  joy  this  day.  Yes,  I  mean 
it — every  word." 

The  smile  which  answered  her  was  free 
of  bitterness,  for  the  girl's  frank,  unstudied 
devotion  touched  the  man's  heart  tenderly  in 
the  moody  gloom  of  the  hour. 

"Good-bye,  good  little  girl,  true  little  girl," 
he  said  as  they  parted  at  the  street  door. 


136      'BOUND  IN  SHALLOWS" 

"You  will  not  be  coming  here  again  for  a 
while,  I  fear  me?" 

Delme'  shook  her  head. 

"Not  unless  the  others  should  be  coming." 

"Certainly  it  would  not  do  for  young  maids 
like  you  to  venture  here  in  the  next  two  months 
unprotected,  since  I  am  now  become  a  species 
of  unclassified  monster,  dangerous  to  ap 
proach,  being  neither  bachelor,  benedict  nor 
widower,  as  I  see  plainly  myself.  Go  then, 
but  see  you  do  not  forget  to  keep  a  place  in 
Trinity  Court  for  a  lonely  neighbour  on  a 
stormy  night  now  and  then." 

"I  shall  remember,"  said  Delme'. 

"And  Delme'," — he  detained  her  yet  another 
moment, — "after  Michaelmas,  when  my  little 
lady  is  here  again,  will  you  help  me  to  make 
better  cheer  for  her,  that  so  she  may  even  at 
last  forget  her  father's  house  and  cleave  to 
mine?" 

Seeing  the  wistfulness  and  the  haggard  anx 
iety  of  his  look,  the  girl  could  not  withhold 
her  promise.  She  hurried  then  from  the  house, 
her  young  heart  swelling  dangerously  high 
with  pity  and  scorning. 


BOOK  III 

THE  POET,  THE  LAW,  AND 
THE  LADY 


X 

AN  ULTIMATUM 

IN  a  walnut-wainscoted  dining-room  in 
Trinity  Court  on  Tuesday,  in  the  second 
week  of  October,  two  gentlemen  sat  over  their 
wine  and  fruit.  The  elder,  Dr.  Davies,  a  man 
with  keen  falcon  nose  and  short-cut  hair  of 
iron-grey,  was  clad  in  the  severe  but  elegant 
black  habit  with  broad  transparent  ruff  of  the 
Puritan  civilian ;  the  younger,  Prosper  Unwin, 
wore  the  faced  red-coat  with  gold  lace  of  a 
major  in  the  Parliamentary  army. 

The  noon  meal  being  over  the  women  of  the 
family  had  withdrawn,  leaving  these  two  to 
their  earnest  discussion  of  the  political  crisis, 
and  the  immediate  and  urgent  nature  of  the 
errand  which  had  brought  Prosper  to  London. 
He  had  arrived  but  that  morning,  having  rid 
den  hard  all  the  way  from  the  Lincolnshire 
wolds,  his  errand  being  to  stir  the  Parliament 
ary  leaders  in  London  to  despatch  volunteers 

139 


140    POET,    LAW,   AND  LADY 

in  all  haste  to  Huntingdon.  At  the  moment 
Colonel  Cromwell  with  his  division  was  await 
ing  there  the  reinforcements,  of  which  his  need 
was  extreme. 

"It  is  but  little  cheer,  take  it  all  in  all, 
you've  to  bring  us,  Major  Unwin,"  Dr.  Davies 
said  soberly,  pushing  his  chair  away  from  the 
table,  his  brows  knit  in  a  frown  of  undisguised 
anxiety. 

"No  cheer  now,"  was  the  prompt  reply 
spoken  in  Prosper's  firm  undaunted  fashion, 
"but  good  cheer  soon  to  be  if  Parliament  but 
bestirs  itself." 

As  he  spoke  a  door  behind  him  was  gently 
pushed  open  and  a  woman's  voice  exclaimed 
with  quaintly  foreign  accent,  and  peculiar 
sweetness  of  modulation: 

"Ah,  if  the  Doctor  would  but  permit  us  to 
return  and  listen  to  the  speech  of  our  nephew !" 

Both  men  sprang  to  their  feet;  Prosper 
opened  wide  the  door  with  ceremonious  rever 
ence,  while  his  host  drew  two  chairs  forward 
and  held  out  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of  cor 
dial  invitation.  A  slender,  graceful  matron, 
dressed  richly  in  a  gown  of  violet  silk,  entered 


AN  ULTIMATUM  141 

the  room  with  an  air  of  much  simple  dignity, 
an  affectionate  smile  to  husband  and  nephew 
in  her  singularly  beautiful  browrn  eyes.  Made 
leine  Davies  was  followed  by  her  daughter,  and 
as  Prosper  bent  for  a  moment  over  her  chair, 
he  realized  anew  what  had  occupied  the  fore 
ground  of  his  thoughts  throughout  dinner,  that 
Delme'  Davies  had  growrn  lovelier  than  ever, 
with  a  new  womanly  self-possession  which  be 
came  her  marvellously. 

"Pray  do  not  let  us  interrupt  or  divert  your 
speaking.  We  promise  to  be  most  quiet." 
Madeleine  Davies  spoke  with  pleading  serious 
ness,  folding  her  hands  demurely  in  her  lap 
and  lifting  attentive  eyes  to  the  regard  of  the 
two  men.  Delme'  had  not  thus  far  spoken.  Dr. 
Davies,  having  resumed  his  chair,  nodded  as 
sent,  saying: 

"Be  seated  Major,  if  you  please,  and  let  us 
continue.  There  is  nothing  of  which  we  may 
not  speak  as  freely  in  this  presence  as  if  we 
were  alone,  for  my  wife  is  Silence,  and  my 
daughter  Discretion." 

"Do  I  not  know  that?"  returned  Prosper, 
lifting  his  glass  with  glances  of  admiring  horn- 


142    POET,   LAW,  AND  LADY 

age  to  the  ladies.  "Would  I  had  better  cheer 
for  Silence  and  Discretion,  but  our  tide  seems 
running  fast  out.  Gainsborough  is  lost,  Lin 
coln  is  lost,  and  unless  Parliament  rouses  it 
self  in  earnest  all  may  be  lost." 

"Is  the  army  itself  alive  to  the  nature  of 
the  position?" 

"Yes,  and  that  is  the  worst  of  it,  sir,  for  the 
hearts  of  our  men  are  so  deaded  by  persistent 
defeat  that  many  have  deserted  of  late,  and 
before  this  the  ranks  were  badly  thinned  by 
disease  and  losses  in  battle." 

"It  is  the  loss  of  heart,  the  spread  of  treach 
ery,  which  is  undermining  our  cause,  worse 
than  all  the  out-and-out  defeat,"  returned  Dr. 
Davies.  "Waller's  defection  is  a  heavy  blow 
and  Bristol  has  surrendered  over-soon  to 
Prince  Rupert.  Our  props  are  few,  for  my 
Lord  Fairfax  is  beaten  all  to  pieces,  which 
has  to  say  truth  fallen  on  our  leaders  in  Par 
liament  here  in  London  like  a  death  sen 
tence.  In  every  direction  we  look  is  darkness. 
The  only  man  in  England  to-day  who  can 
save  her  is  your  man,  Major  Unwin, — Oliver 
Cromwell." 


AN  ULTIMATUM  143 

"Eight,  sir,  and  save  it  he  will,"  replied 
Prosper  stoutly,  but  with  nothing  of  youth 
ful  swagger.  Delme',  who  watched  him 
steadily,  saw  great  change  in  him.  It 
was  not  merely  that  he  was  war-worn 
and  his  skin  weather-beaten  and  powder- 
stained,  that  his  frame  had  taken  on  a 
hardness  like  iron,  and  his  face  had  lost  its 
boyish  smoothness  and  become  rugged  and 
sternly  lined.  The  greater  change  came,  the 
girl  felt,  from  within,  in  an  effect  of  solemnity 
and  steadfastness  of  spirit,  in  something 
heroic,  suppressed  from  sight  but  as  of  a  mor 
tal  passion  of  religious  patriotism.  He  had 
been  in  the  School  of  War,  and  had  Oliver 
Cromwell  for  schoolmaster. 

"And  you  ride  to  Peterborough  to-morrow, 
Prosper?"  she  asked  timidly,  a  softening  of  re 
gret  perceptible  in  her  tone;  "that  is  short 
space  for  tarrying  here  at  home  when  you  have 
been  so  long  away." 

Prosper,  at  first  sound  of  her  voice,  bent  on 
Delme'  a  look  of  tender  response,  his  whole  face 
irradiated  suddenly  by  the  kindness  of  her 
words.  She  had  been  used  to  speak  to  him 


144   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

with  the  comrade  carelessness  of  cousins  nur 
tured  together.  He  fancied  a  change  which 
sent  hope  thrilling  through  his  veins. 

"Yes,  Peterborough  and  Boston  to-morrow, 
my  dear,"  he  said  gently,  then  to  hide  his  pleas 
ure,  over-great,  in  her  passing  concern,  went 
on,  turning  to  the  Doctor :  "It's  Boots  and  Sad 
dles  and  away  this  time  sure,  for  the  Royalists 
are  on  the  march  through  the  Fen  country 
even  now,  and  in  great  force.  Yet  if  Par 
liament  be  quick  enough  all  may  still  go 
well." 

"Unless  the  women  of  London  prevail,"  in 
terposed  Madeleine  Davies ;  "we  hear  that  only 
yesterday  a  great  multitude  of  them,  wives  of 
substantial  citizens,  clamoured  at  the  door  of 
Commons  for  peace." 

"And  shame  upon  them  for  it,  too!"  cried 
Delme',  her  colour  rising,  and  the  defiant  lights 
which  Prosper  well  remembered  kindling  in 
her  eyes.  Old  memories  stirring  then  to  life 
he  asked  quickly : 

"I  have  heard  nothing  yet  of  our  neighbour, 
Mr.  John  Milton,  since  my  coming.  You  wrote 
me  three  months  since  of  his  taking  a  wife  and 


AN  ULTIMATUM  145 

from  the  wrong  camp,  but  I  trust  she  is  not 
of  the  sort  that  clamour  now  for  peace." 

"Delme'  made  no  answer,  but  a  swift  change 
passed  over  her  face,  a  change  which  Prosper 
marked  but  could  not  interpret. 

"Nay,"  put  in  Mistress  Davies,  "she  is  of  the 
sort  that  when  not  six  weeks  married  clamour 
to  go  home  to  her  father's  house.  Go  she 
would  and  go  she  must  in  the  summer,  promis 
ing  to  return  at  Michaelmas.  But  that  being 
past,  still  there  she  abides,  leaving  husband 
and  house  to  shift  for  themselves.  More  than 
once,  Dame  Blackborough  owns,  he  has  sent 
after  her,  but  without  result." 

"By  the  Lord  Harry !"  cried  the  Major,  "but 
she  must  be  a  choice  spirit!  How  does  Mr. 
Milton  bear  it?"  his  eyes  still  on  Delme'. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  the  girl,  her  voice 
grown  cold;  "I  have  seen  Mr.  Milton  but 
rarely  since  she  left.  He  has  his  father  with 
him,  stays  much  at  home,  and  works  hard,  I 
hear,  at  his  pamphlets." 

Dr.  Davies  had  risen,  and  now  crossed  the 
room  to  the  outer  hall,  as  with  instant  purpose 
for  going  out. 


146   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

"I  ain  glad  you  have  spoken  of  John  Milton," 
he  said,  turning  at  the  door,  "it  is  but  right 
that  we  should  go  to  him  with  the  Major, 
which  may  not  be  if  we  delay.  Though  your 
tidings  is  heavy,  Prosper,  it  is  needful  that 
Milton  learn  all  he  can  at  first-hand  from 
you.  Moreover,  the  man's  face  haunts  me,  for 
it  shows  him  sorely  chafing  under  the  insult 
of  his  wife's  frivolous  conduct.  Come,  all  of 
you.  It  is  but  neighbourly  kindness,  and  the 
sight  of  two  gentlewomen  in  his  neglected 
house  may  bring  him  passing  comfort." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  four  visitors  to  the 
house  by  the  Alders'  Gate  were  ushered  by  the 
servant-maid  Sarah,  who,  Delrne'  perceived,  had 
changed  in  appearance  only  for  the  worse,  di 
rectly  into  the  garden.  Here  in  his  armchair 
in  the  sunshine  of  the  October  afternoon  sat 
John  Milton,  the  father,  a  gentle  old  man  with 
the  finely-kept  person  and  delicate,  blue- 
veined  hands  of  the  patrician.  The  beauty  of 
face  and  figure  which  distinguished  the 
younger,  as  well  as  his  gracious  courtesy  of 
manner,  were  conspicuous  in  the  elder  Milton, 
as  he  rose  from  his  place  and  stood  in  the 


AN  ULTIMATUM  147 

garden  path  to  welcome  the  friends  of  his 
son, 

Sarah  was  sent  into  the  house  for  chairs 
for  the  ladies  while  room  was  found  on  rustic 
benches  for  Major  Unwin  and  the  Doctor. 
Still  there  was  no  sign  of  the  presence  of  the 
master  of  the  house. 

"My  son  will  come  presently,"  said  Mr.  Mil 
ton  at  length,  a  shadow  of  misgiving  on  his 
face  in  spite  of  his  words.  "The  maid  has  gone 
now  to  summon  him.  I  am  sure  he  will  come. 
It  is  with  difficulty,  I  will  confess,  that  we 
entice  him  now  from  his  desk  for  the  ordinary 
intercourse  of  social  life.  He  confines  himself 
far  too  closely  and  his  eyes  suffer  and,  I  fear, 
his  health." 

While  his  father  spoke,  however,  Milton 
himself  appeared,  coming  rapidly  down  the 
garden  walk  in  his  scholar's  gown  with  out 
stretched  hand  and  a  smile  of  welcome.  De 
spite  the  animation  called  up  by  their  coming, 
Prosper  Unwin  was  shocked  at  the  change  in 
his  face;  it  had  grown  noticeably  thin  and 
careworn  and  was  touched  furthermore  by  un 
conscious  languor,  as  of  settled  depression. 


148    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

For  an  hour  they  sat  together,  absorbed  in 
earnest  discussion  of  the  crisis  of  the  war,  so 
menacing  to  what  they  all  believed  the  cause 
of  human  rights  and  British  liberties.  Delme', 
taking  no  part  save  to  listen,  sat  on  the  outer 
edge  of  the  group  and  was  the  only  one  to 
hear  the  door  open  in  the  garden  wall,  giving 
access  to  the  passage  from  the  street.  Looking 
through  the  shrubbery  which  concealed  the 
little  group  from  his  view,  she  saw  Hubert,  Mr. 
Milton's  man-servant,  approach  hastily  by  a 
side  path.  That  he  was  in  no  small  excitement 
of  mind  was  shown  by  his  countenance  and  by 
the  disorder  of  his  dress,  usually  of  particular 
neatness. 

At  the  moment  of  Hubert's  coming  unex 
pectedly  upon  the  little  company,  Milton  him 
self  caught  sight  of  him  and  sprang  from  his 
place  in  sudden  and  marked  agitation.  Neither 
he  nor  the  servant  in  the  brief  dialogue  which 
followed  seemed  aware  that  they  were  not 
alone. 

"What  news  from  Oxfordshire?"  was  the 
first  hasty  question  of  the  master. 

"In  all  Cavalier  quarters  fierce  triumph  over 


AN   ULTIMATUM  149 

the  ill  success  of  our  troops  and  confidence 
that  the  war  nears  its  close." 

"But  you  come — alone,  Hubert?"  There 
was  a  note  of  poignant  anxiety  in  this. 

"Aye,  sir,  I  could  not  bring  the  mistress." 

"What  word  have  you  brought?" 

"Worse,  sir,  than  before." 

"Did  you  see  my  wife?" 

"Yes,  sir,  though  but  for  a  moment." 

"What  said  she?  What  message  did  she 
send  me  this  time?" 

"None,  sir.  Mistress  Milton  though  wras  less 
thwart  than  her  mother,  saying  but  little  save 
that  she  was  well  content  to  bide  with  her 
own  folk  and  not  minded  to  return  to  the 
enemies  of  her  King  and  kindred.  Some 
King's  men,  ribald  cavaliers,  stood  by  jeering 
at  my  rebuff,  but  it  was  Dame  Powell  did  talk 
most  and  that  huge  high  and  most  unhand 
somely,  if  I  must  tell  the  truth." 

"Tell  it  thoroughly,  man,  to  the  bottom,"  re 
plied  Milton  in  a  deadened,  toneless  voice. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Milton,"  and  the  old  ser 
vant's  voice  shook  at  the  remembrance,  "I  will 
say  then  that  never  have  I  met  such  abuse  as 


150   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

was  heaped  upon  me  at  Mr.  Powell's  gates. 
No  bite  or  sup  was  offered  for  man  or  beast, 
and  me  ridden  all  the  way  from  London. 
Turned  away  was  I  by  the  dame  like  a  beggar 
and  with  harder  words  than  you  would  like  to 
hear,  such  as  that  my  master  was  a  canting 
hypocrite  and  traitor.  She  bid  you  keep  your 
dirty  knaves  at  home  and  waste  not  their  wind, 
which  would  be  food  for  the  hangman's  rope 
now  in  short  order  since  the  King  would  soon 
be  coming  to  his  own." 

"Go  on,"  said  Milton,  harshly. 

"The  upshot  of  all,  sir,  was  that  your  lady's 
mother  wished  you  to  know  certainly  that  Mis 
tress  Milton  would  not  return  to  be  mewed  up, 
as  she  put  it,  like  a  sheep  in  a  pen,  and  that 
if  any  more  varlets  came  to  Shotover  with 
your  summonses  they  would  find  the  horsewhip 
waiting  for  them." 

Hubert  stopped,  his  stiffened  but  sturdy 
frame  trembling,  his  voice  choked  with  indig 
nation.  During  the  recital  Madeleine  and 
Delme',  ill  at  ease,  had  taken  each  the  other's 
hand  and  gone  quietly  apart  a  few  paces 
among  the  flower  beds. 


AN  ULTIMATUM  151 

"Go  into  the  house,  Hubert,"  said  his  mas 
ter,  "you  are  dead  tired  and  no  wonder.  Have 
Sarah  give  you  food  and  drink  and  then  to  bed 
as  fast  as  may  be." 

Hubert  then  turning  to  leave,  Milton  con 
fronted  his  visitors,  his  face  ghastly,  but  his 
eyes  like  glowing  coals. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  deliber 
ate  formality  of  utterance  as  necessary  to  self- 
command,  "I  call  God  to  witness  and  you,  this 
day,  that  I  have  no  wife!  Let  it  be  clear. 
Mary  Powell  is  naught  to  me  from  this  day 
forward  as  I  am  less  than  naught  to  her. 
Let  her  name  be  never  mentioned  before 
me." 

Then  in  a  sinister  sort  of  calmness  he 
crossed  the  path  before  Delme'  and  her  mother 
with  careful  apology  and  stepped  to  the  plane- 
tree  on  whose  bark  he  had  so  recently  carved 
the  name  of  his  bride.  Drawing  from  his  belt 
the  strong  sheath-knife  which  it  was  his  habit 
to  wear  when  without  a  sword,  he  cut  from 
the  tree  that  portion  of  the  bark  enclosing  the 
name  Mary  Milton  with  a  few  clean,  swift 
strokes.  Then  turning  to  the  three  men  he 


152    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

bowed,  still  with  the  same  grimness  on  his 
face,  and  added : 

"Gentlemen,  the  curtain  is  rung  down.  The 
play,  though  brief,  is  over.  Major  Unwin,"  he 
continued  steadily,  addressing  Prosper,  "from 
the  light  you  give  me  on  the  position  of  our 
forces  I  conclude  that  all  possible  influence, 
even  my  own,  should  be  brought  upon  moving 
Parliament  to  increase  and  hurry  forward  the 
reinforcements  to  Cromwell.  A  battle  seems 
imminent.  You  have  seen  certain  of  the  lead 
ers,  but  there  are  others,  men  of  consequence, 
to  whom  I  wish  you  to  tell  your  story.  Shall 
we  start  at  once  for  Westminster?" 


XI 

THE   VISITOR  IN  THE  SEDAN 
CHAIR 

NEXT  morning  before  break  of  day  Delme' 
was  up  to  see  Prosper  off.  As  he  stood 
in  helmet  and  cuirass  ready  to  mount 
and  gallop  away  eastward  with  his  troop,  he 
studied  her  face  soberly  for  a  moment.  He 
was  sure  that  she  had  not  slept  by  her  hollow 
eyes  and  a  pallor  which  was  yet  not  all  the  re 
sult  of  sleeplessness,  he  thought,  but  rather  of 
the  scene  in  Milton's  garden.  He  had  seen 
her  but  for  a  little  time  late  the  night  before 
on  his  return  from  Westminster,  but  had  then 
discerned  that  some  strong  change  had  passed 
upon  the  girl,  for  her  mind  seemed  to  dwell 
apart,  and  all  her  movements  were  restless  and 
full  of  suppressed  excitement. 

"Good-bye,  little  sweetheart,"  he  said,  being 
mounted,  while  she  and  her  mother  stood  at 

153 


154     POET,    LAW,   AND  LADY 

the  stirrup.  "I  am  still  bold  to  call  you  so, 
Delme'.  Think  of  me,  will  you,  now  and  then?" 

"Always,  dear  Prosper,  and  in  my  prayers 
particularly." 

"Very  good,  and  needed.  The  battle  will  be 
on  soon.  Good-bye,"  and  he  tightened  rein  and 
galloped  off  toward  the  Alders'  Gate,  his  shape 
soon  lost  in  the  morning  mist. 

It  was  a  grey  and  lowering  morning  and, 
after  Prosper's  departure,  Delme'  felt  a  heavy 
cloud  hanging  upon  her  own  spirit.  Being 
market-day  her  mother  departed  with  the  cook, 
the  morning  tasks  over,  for  an  expedition  sure 
to  consume  several  hours.  Dr.  Davies  was  al 
ways  occupied  during  the  forenoon  with  pa 
tients  in  the  surgery,  and  Delme'  found  herself 
doomed  to  her  own  solitary  society.  Restless 
and  vaguely  apprehensive  she  tried  in  vain  to 
spin  or  sew  or  put  her  mind  on  the  Italian 
reading  which  she  now  continued  alone.  At 
the  end  of  the  long  drawing-room  was  a  pipe- 
organ  of  unusual  proportions  and  power.  Dr. 
Davies,  himself  a  musician  of  some  note,  had 
taken  no  small  pains  in  instructing  Delme'  in 
the  use  both  of  the  organ  and  of  virginals. 


The   VISITOR  155 


Hitherto  the  organ's  music  had  been  a  source 
of  unfailing  solace  to  her,  whatever  her  heart 
ache,  but  this  morning  its  strains  rang  hollow 
and  toneless  in  her  ears.  In  fine,  nothing 
interested  her  or  served  to  draw  her  thoughts 
away  from  the  vision  of  John  Milton,  as  slie 
saw  him  yesterday  standing  under  garden 
boughs  to  receive,  through  poor  Hubert,  the 
final  blow  to  hope.  She  had  seen  his  man 
hood  suffer  shock,  but  had  seen  all  the  quiver 
ing  passion  of  humiliation  curbed  by  the  un 
conquerable  will.  She  had  suffered  with  him 
in  every  fibre  through  the  piercing  intuition 
of  her  sympathy.  What  wonder  that  the  scene 
haunted  her  and  drove  her  restlessly  from 
room  to  room  as  if  in  search  of  something 
she  could  not  find ! 

Glancing  presently  in  her  fitful  course  from 
one  of  the  front  windows  Delme'  caught  sight 
of  an  object  strange  and  new  in  the  court  be 
fore  the  house  and  turned  to  look  more  nearly. 
Before  her  own  door  two  stout  servitors  were 
at  the  moment  carefully  setting  down  a  lac 
quered  and  gilded  sedan  chair  hung  with  flow 
ered  silk  curtains.  This  French  form  of  con- 


156    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

veyance,  only  lately  brought  to  London,  was 
so  unfamiliar  to  Delme'  as  to  awaken  a  child's 
lively  curiosity.  For  a  moment  all  her  griefs 
and  forebodings  were  lost  in  the  absorbing 
question :  what  visitor  could  be  coming  to  their 
house  in  this  gorgeous  and  aristocratic 
vehicle?  A  gloved  hand  quickly  parted  the 
curtains  and  a  lady  stepped  to  the  pavement 
and  turned  to  give  orders  to  the  chair-men, 
thus  giving  Delme'  an  instant  in  which  to  see 
that  she  was  tall,  stately,  and  richly  dressed. 
A  moment  or  two  later  the  small  household 
page  opened  the  drawing-room  door  and  an 
nounced,  "The  Lady  Margaret  Ley." 

Delme'  curtseyed  to  her  distinguished 
visitor,  who  held  out  a  cordial  hand,  then  took 
the  chair  offered  her  and  sat  for  an  instant 
looking  attentively  at  her  young  hostess. 
Something  shrewdly  searching,  yet  kindly 
quizzical  in  the  lady's  strong-featured  face 
struck  upon  Delinks  sense  of  humour,  and 
with  the  frankness  habitual  to  her,  she 
laughed  lightly  and  remarked : 

"Am  I  all  that  you  could  wish,  your  Lady 
ship?" 


The   VISITOR  157 

Upon  this  Delmd's  visitor  laughed  outright 
also,  relaxed  her  somewhat  tense  attitude,  and 
clapping  her  hands  together,  cried: 

"All,  and  more  than  all!  You  suit  me  to 
admiration.  I  hope  you  know  your  neighbour, 

my  friend,  Master  John  Milton,  Mistress ; 

nay  now,  what  is  your  name,  my  pretty  child?" 

"Delme'  Davies,  your  Ladyship." 

"Davies  to  be  sure,  being  daughter  of  my 
late  father's  quondam  physician.  My  father, 
perhaps  you  do  not  know,  my  dear,  was  Marl- 
borough,  minister  to  his  Majesty  James  I. 
Your  father  attended  him,  I  well  remember, 
in  his  last  illness.  So  much  for  Davies.  But 
Delink — sure  'tis  a  French  name  and  odd  at 
that.  How  come  you  by  it?" 

Lady  Margaret's  imperious  abruptness,  so 
far  from  disconcerting  Delme',  amused  and 
aroused  her. 

"Dr.  Davies  is  my  stepfather,  Lady  Mar 
garet,"  she  replied  with  composure.  "My  par 
ents  were  both  French.  Have  I  not  a  right  to 
a  French  name?  In  good  truth  I  should  be 
Delink  Delon,  but  it  pleases  my  stepfather 
that  I  should  be  called  by  his  name." 


158    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

"Excellent.  A  perfect  explanation,  for  it 
answers  a.11  the  questions  I  had  in  the  back  of 
my  head  ready  to  fire.  Now  your  question  is : 
What  is  this  old  woman  come  here  for,  any 
way?  Answer  now!  Am  I  right?" 

Again  Delink  laughed  unconstrainedly,  and 
assented.  "Only  not  old,"  she  interjected. 

"Very  good,  very  good!  Listen,  Delme' 
Davies,"  began  Lady  Margaret  with  a  change 
to  a  more  serious  tone ;  "up  yonder  in  that  gar 
den  house, — rather  a  pretty  house  from  with 
out  it  is,  though  not  so  good  as  this, — off  the 
Aldersgate  Street, — lives  my  very  particular 
friend,  Master  John  Milton,  poet,  scholar, 
patriot,  gentleman." 

Beimels  rising  colour  was  her  sole  response. 
Lady  Margaret  continued. 

"He  advised  me  of  his  marriage  down  in  the 
country  somewhere,  a  few  months  ago.  I  bid 
him  bring  the  bride  to  Villiers  Street,  being 
most  desirous  of  showing  her  hospitality.  For 
some  reason  he  did  not  do  it,  though  to  my 
surprise  he  came  to  the  house  once  and  again 
for  an  hour  without  her.  The  bride  secluded 
herself  persistently.  Well,  I  began  to  think, 


The  VISITOR  159 

though  she  be  country  bred  and  a  mere  slip  of 
seventeen  and  I  all  of  forty-five,  she  stands  on 
her  dignity,  that  I  shall  first  seek  her  out,  and 
make  her  my  devoir.  Doubtless  she  will  be 
rather  tiresome,  but  I  must  e'en  do  it  for  my 
poet's  sake,  since  he  is  the  principal  relief 
Heaven  furnishes  me  in  this  present  world  of 
warfare  and  foolish  strife.  So  then,  sweet 
Mistress  Delnie',  this  morning,  being  not  pre 
vented  by  affairs,  I  called  for  my  new-fangled 
French  chair;  a  very  gaudy  bit  of  trumpery, 
I  call  it,  and  vastly  prefer  my  stout  old 
mare's  legs  to  those  of  yon  two  grinning 
knaves.  But  I  thought  the  new  Mistress  Mil 
ton  might  fancy  me  putting  on  my  bravery 
for  her  sake,  so  in  I  got  and  off  we  started. 
As  you  see,  I  was  nice  in  dressing  myself,  in 
my  next-to-best  satin  gown,  and  so  alighted 
at  Master  Milton's  door,  and  was  shown  by 
the  very  obliging  man-servant  up  into  the  par 
lour  where  all  was  as  stiff  and  cold  as  if  a 
corpse  lay  in  the  corner  ready  for  burial.  I 
cannot  say  what  a  deadly  constraint  fell  on 
me  the  moment  I  entered.  'Twas  never  like 
that  in  other  times  when  I  have  been  in  the 


160   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

house;  I  remember  being  then  received  by 
a  very  comfortable,  decent  body.  I  forget  her 
name." 

"Dame  Glynn." 

"Yes,  yes.  That's  the  name.  Have  her  sent 
for,  will  you,  my  dear?  immediately.  Your 
mother  can  see  to  it,  for  she  must  be  fetched 
back  at  once.  But  let  me  proceed : — in  a  few 
moments  in  comes  John  Milton,  but  on  my 
honour  I  might  better  say  his  ghost.  I  fairly 
jumped  from  my  chair,  and  would  have  asked 
him  bluntly  for  the  good  Lord's  sake  what 
ailed  him,  but  there  was  that  about  him  which 
forbade  the  liberty,  and  I  quite  shook  in  my 
knees  as  I  stood  and  asked  with  as  much 
politeness  as  my  scattered  wits  would  serve 
me  to  if  I  might  have  the  favour  of  paying  a 
visit  to  his  wife." 

Beimels  cheeks  had  grown  pale  and  her  fin 
gers  twisted  unconsciously  tight  together. 

" '  Pardon  me,  Lady  Margaret,  I  have  no 
uife.'  Will  you  believe  me,  my  dear,  that  was 
what  he  said !  I  was  on  the  point  of  blurting 
out  then,  'Good  gracious,  man,  when  did  she 
die?'  which  would  indeed  have  been  another 


The   VISITOR  161 

faux  pas,  when  he  saved  me  by  saying  with 
marvellous  composure,  but  yet  most  bitterly, 
'The  lady  whom  I  made  my  wife  last  June  dis 
covered  in  four  weeks'  time  that  she  preferred 
her  father's  roof  to  mine  and  accordingly  re 
turned  to  it.  Pardon  me  if  I  say  nothing 
more.'  With  that  he  went  immediately  off 
upon  the  subject  of  the  Scotch  Commissioners, 
and  spoke  fluently  and  well,  and  yet  withal 
with  a  mechanical  turn  as  if  of  necessity 
and  habit.  All  the  while  he  stood,  nor  was 
either  of  us  seated,  and  looked  like  a  man  in 
battle  with  a  death  wound,  propped  up  to  fire 
one  more  shot  before  he  reels  and  falls." 

Lady  Margaret's  keen  dark  eyes  had  filled 
with  tears,  and  Deline',  hardly  knowing  what 
she  did,  seeing  this,  caught  her  hand  and 
kissed  it  impulsively. 

"For  sweet  mercy's  sake,  child,"  murmured 
Lady  Margaret,  passing  her  handkerchief  im 
patiently  across  her  eyes,  "what  is  it  all 
about?  I  can  see  the  matter  can  never  again 
be  touched  in  Milton's  presence,  so  you  must 
tell  me.  Was  the  girl  a  fool?" 

"Rather.    At  least  she  could  find  no  pleas- 


162    POET,    LAW,   AND  LADY 

ure  in  the  studious  life  of  Mr.  Milton's  house, 
lacking  mirth  and  revelry." 

"Did  she  ever  love  him?" 

"I  think  not.  Her  mother  made  the  mar 
riage." 

"Did  he  love  her?" 

"He  loved  what  he  deemed  her  to  be;  sweet, 
modest,  housewifely,  homekeeping  —  so  he 
described  her  once  to  me." 

"Home-keeping!"  sniffed  Lady  Margaret 
scornfully.  "About  as  much  as  a  man's  judg 
ment  of  a  woman  is  worth !  But  I  can  gather 
now  the  sort  she  was,  pink  and  white  and  in 
nocent-looking,  but  bent  on  her  own  way.  The 
worst  kind.  I  know  them,  and  they're  worth 
just  about  as  much  as  dolls,  and  yet  the  Lord 
permits  them  to  ruin  the  noblest  men  He 
creates.  Probably  He  has  His  reasons."  With 
this  Lady  Margaret  rose.  "Perhaps  you  still 
ask  to  know  my  reason  for  coming  here,"  she 
paused  to  add.  "Simply  this :  John  Milton  is 
extraordinarily  dear  to  my  husband  and  to  me, 
and  I  am  afraid  for  him.  The  man  is  des 
perately  hurt,  whether  in  pride,  in  heart,  or  in 
hope  I  know  not  yet,  and  I  fear  what  may  hap- 


The   VISITOR  163 

pen  next  if  he  is  left  wholly  alone  in  that 
silent,  dreary  house.  When  I  came  away,  I 
asked  the  old  man-servant,  who  looked  alto 
gether  broken-hearted,  I  fancied,  if  his  master 
had  any  good  friends  in  the  neighbourhood 
with  whom  he  might  consort  if  he  were  lonely, 
and  he  named  your  family.  So,  remembering 
well  Dr.  Davies,  I  came  straight  here  to  see 
any  of  you  who  might  be  at  hand  and  lay  it 
upon  you  to  keep  some  watch  and  ward  for 
these  coming  weeks  over  the  man,  for  never 
saw  I  one  in  sorer  need.  Had  you  known  of 
the  wife's  defection?  When  did  it  happen?" 

"Yes,  we  have  known.  She  has  been  since 
midsummer  away,  but  it  was  only  yesterday 
that  Mr.  Milton  received  the  final  word  that 
she  would  not  return.  I  will  tell  Dr.  Davies 
and  my  mother,  your  Ladyship,  what  you 
wish." 

They  were  now  at  the  door,  which  Delme' 
opened  for  her  visitor. 

"Tell  yourself  also.  Child  as  you  look,  you 
can  do  more  than  they  if  I  mistake  not.  There 
is  heart's  fire  and  heart's  dew  in  your  eyes  and 
together  they  should  make  heart's  ease.  Mil- 


164    POET,  LAW,   AND  LADY 

ton  had  done  much  better,  since  he  was  for 
marrying  in  such  haste,  to  have  saved  the  jour 
ney  to  Oxfordshire,  and  looked  nearer  home. 
There  now  you  are  turning  rosy  again,  though 
but  now  so  pale.  You  are  sensitive  as  a  wind- 
flower,  Delme'  Davies.  It  is  the  hardest  nature 
to  possess  in  a  hard  world  like  ours,  little  one, 
but  it  is  the  nature  which  most  enamours  us. 
Good-bye.  Kiss  me,  my  dear,  and  when  I  send 
for  you,  will  you  come  to  Villiers  Street?" 

"That  will  I." 

"Meanwhile,  do  not  forget  John  Milton." 

With  this  the  door  closed  upon  Lady  Mar 
garet  Ley. 

"Forget  John  Milton?" 

In  an  onset  of  shivering,  tearless  sobs, 
Delme'  threw  herself  upon  the  sofa  in  the 
drawing-room;  her  face  was  buried  in  her 
hands  and  Lady  Margaret's  last  words  re 
peated  themselves  again  and  again  through 
the  tumult  of  her  passionate  heart. 

Then,  how  long  after  Lady  Margaret's  de 
parture  she  had  no  means  to  measure,  she  felt 
the  presence  of  some  one  near  her,  although 
no  footstep  could  be  heard  on  the  soft,  thick 


The   VISITOR  165 

carpet.  No  word  was  spoken,  but  a  hand  was 
laid  on  her  head  and  suddenly  the  storm  of 
her  spirit  died  away  and  a  calmness  of  ten 
der  reverence  rose  in  its  place.  She  stood  up, 
and  was  face  to  face  with  her  master. 


XII 

HEARTS  FIRE 

4  4  •»"  CAME  upon  you  like  a  thief  in  the 
night,  DelmeV' 

"I  am  glad  you  are  here." 

"I  have  been  for  a  little  in  the  surgery,  let 
ting  the  Doctor  minister  to  my  eyes." 

"Then  they  are  troublesome  again?" 

"Something  more  of  late,  as  I  have  been 
closer  at  work.  Dr.  Davies  insisted  I  should 
bide  here  till  after  dinner;  he  sent  me  in  from 
the  surgery  to  discover  any  of  the  family  who 
might  be  within,  or  to  take  the  freedom  of 
the  house  alone." 

"Yes." 

Delme'  seated  herself  quietly  on  the  sofa, 
and  looking  up  in  Milton's  face  as  he  stood 
before  her,  she  made  a  swift  eloquent  gesture 
with  both  hands,  as  if  she  had  said,  "Let  these 
immaterial  incidents  pass.  Speak  what  is 
really  in  your  heart." 

166 


HEART'S  FIRE  167 

He  understood  her,  and  for  a  moment  bent 
a  measuring  look  upon  her,  reading  her  awe 
and  piteous  wonder.  Strong  agony,  Deline* 
perceived,  had  worked  havoc  with  the  fine  sen 
sitive  face,  ploughing  deep  lines  and  wasting 
strange  hollows.  The  mouth,  of  old  rich  in 
the  beauty  of  its  generous  curves,  was  grim 
and  hard-set,  but  in  the  eyes  were  fires  as  of 
disdain  and  great  amazement.  The  extraor 
dinary  brilliance,  just  then,  of  Milton's  eyes, 
singularly  luminous  as  they  were  wont  to  be, 
was  caused  by  the  drug  just  employed  in  dilat 
ing  the  pupil.  This  Deline"  understood;  none 
the  less  in  the  pallor  of  his  impassioned  face, 
they  seemed  to  her  imagination  to  blaze  with 
supernatural  light. 

Her  own  eyes  fell  beneath  the  fiery  gaze, 
so  turning  away  he  strode  impetuously  down 
the  long  drawing-room.  Coming  again  to  her 
side,  he  exclaimed: 

"In  my  vigil  last  night,  Deline*,  you  were 
often  before  me.  In  very  truth  I  have  come 
to  hold  you  in  no  small  part  responsible  for 
the  blunder  of  my  ill-twisted  wedlock,  and 
therefore  you  shall  pay  the  penalty.  Yes, 


168    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

you  and  you  alone,  and  this  once  only,  shall 
bear  to  hear  the  vain  and  futile  railing  of  a 
fool  caught  in  his  own  folly." 

"Say  instead  of  a  poet  caught  in  his  own 
poetry." 

Milton  glanced  in  surprise  at  the  girl,  for 
she  spoke  with  a  readiness  and  a  composure 
he  had  not  anticipated,  unembarrassed  by 
the  unlooked-for,  whimsical  menace  of  his 
words. 

"It  comes  to  the  same  thing,"  he  said,  a 
faint  shadow  of  a  smile  crossing  his  face. 
"The  dreamer  who  dares  to  think  he  can  trans 
late  these  hard,  fierce  human  conditions  which 
surround  us  into  the  poetry  and  heavenly 
harmony  of  his  dream  is  little  better  than  a 
fool." 

"You  have  said,  Mr.  Milton,  that  I  bear 
responsibility  in  this  .  .  .  that  has  happened. 
.  .  .  Why?" 

"You  do  not  seem  frightened  at  the 
thought." 

"Because  I  do  not  yet  believe  it." 

"Then  let  me  prove  it." 

As    he    talked    on,    Milton    continued    his 


HEART'S  FIRE  169 

stormy  pacing  of  the  room,  while  Delme'  sat 
motionless  as  before. 

"It  was  you,  child,  gave  me  my  measure 
of  a  maid.  I  saw  you  timid,  unassuming,  and 
gentle  before  your  elders,  yet  nevertheless 
firm  in  yourself  and  mettlesome  as  suits  a 
noble  and  conquering  spirit,  and  eager  in  as 
piration  ever  to  win  fresh  fields  of  thought 
and  study.  I  should  no  doubt  have  seen  that 
yours  was  the  rare,  the  exceptional  nature. 
But  I  took  it  for  norm  and  type  of  girlhood. 
So  then,  do  you  see?  when  fortune  brought 
my  way  one  of  wifely  maturity,  of  fair  seem 
ing,  yet  a  mute  and  bashful  virgin,  hapless, 
forlorn,  and  needy  of  one  to  undertake  for 
her,  I  discerned  in  her  those  qualities  peculiar 
to  you  which  I  was  fool  enough  to  fancy 
proper  to  your  order.  It  was  my  convince- 
ment  that  I  had  found  a  gentle,  teachable 
nature,  which,  however  simple  still  and 
untrained,  would  respond  with  gladness 
when  called  by  love  to  things  high  and 
noble." 

There  was  a  long  pause.    Then  under  his 
breath  Milton  groaned: 


170    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

"And  I  had,  in  fact,  found  an  image  of 
earth,  heartless,  lifeless,  faithless." 

Again  silence;  then  breaking  through  the 
barriers  of  his  reserve  as  though  he  were  but 
thinking  aloud,  Milton  went  on  with  agitated 
utterance : 

"And  to  this  image,  to  this  unspeakable 
thraldom  to  a  shadow  of  that  which  at  best 
is  naught,  the-  Canon  Law  of  England  binds 
me  body  and  soul  while  I  live.  Now  first 
do  I  perceive  the  body  of  death  with  which 
numbers  of  my  fellow  men  are  burdened 
throughout  this  mortal  life,  because  a  super 
cilious  crew  of  Papist  prelates  in  the  Middle 
Ages  saw  fit  to  lay  their  sacramental  yoke 
upon  all  succeeding  generations,  so  creating 
a  set  of  imaginary  and  scarecrow  sins.  What 
were  nobler:  to  steep  one's  soul  in  the  suffo 
cating  fumes  of  a  polluting  disunion,  main 
tained  in  spite  of  mortal  antipathy  for  a 
lifetime,  or  to  smite  off  with  one  blow  the 
fetters  of  needless  servitude  from  one's  self 
and  so  from  all  who  suffer  a  like  bondage, 
and  stand  free  among  the  free?" 

As  Milton  went  on  with  this  extraordinary 


HEART'S  FIRE  171 

monologue  he  was  like  a  man  feeling  his  way 
from  tree  to  tree  of  a  pathless  forest,  guided 
only  by  a  far-distant  gleam  of  light  be 
yond.  Delme'  followed,  but  vaguely,  the 
motions  of  his  mind,  and  knew  herself  now 
forgotten. 

"Were  marriage  a  convention,  a  bargain  of 
expediency,"  Milton  slowly  proceeded,  his  eyes 
stern  and  fixed  before  him,  all  their  late  lustre 
fled,  "were  it  a  mere  physical  ordinance,  then 
were  the  Canon  Law  of  inevitable  perpetuity 
justifiable,  but  sure  'tis  something  far  nobler, 
else  were  we  little  better  than  the  brute 
creation.  The  unity  of  souls,  the  communion 
of  pure  and  aspiring  minds,  the  harmony  of 
spirits  as  in  a  perfect  musical  chord,  rising 
to  divine  and  heavenly  sweetness,  that  is 
God's  thought,  God's  plan.  And  when  men 
degrade  a  noble  instrument  to  lesser  ends 
by  such  uncomplying  discord  of  nature,  what 
is  it  but  violence  to  the  higher  spiritual  law  by 
obedience  to  the  letter  of  tradition?  There 
may  yet  be  a  blow  to  strike  for  liberty,  not  of 
the  one,  but  of  the  many!  Whatever  is  done 
must  be  done  aloft  under  the  roof  of  Heaven, 


172   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

and  by  one  who  shall  dare  to  be  sole  advocate 
of  a  hitherto  discountenanced  truth.  But 
this  I  see  clearly,  that  men  of  most  renowned 
virtue  have  in  the  past  sometimes,  by  trans 
gressing,  most  truly  kept  law." 

He  stopped  speaking,  walked  twice  the 
length  of  the  room,  his  head  dropped  forward, 
his  hands  linked  behind.  Next,  as  if  mechani 
cally  and  of  habit,  observing  the  open  organ, 
he  seated  himself  before  it  and  with  power 
ful,  spontaneous  touch  struck  from  its  keys 
discords  and  harmonies  wrhich  gradually  gath 
ered  in  tumultuous  power  as  he  played  on  un 
til  they  mingled  in  a  storm  of  mighty  music, 
like  the  struggle  of  gods.  And  still  Delme' 
stirred  not  at  all  from  her  place,  but  watched 
her  master  as  he  beat  his  music  out  and 
through  the  music  swept  the  titanic  rage  of 
his  soul  and  filled  the  place  where  they  sat. 
Unmoved  though  she  seemed,  the  girl  felt 
her  whole  being, — body,  mind,  conscience,  will, 
— swept  onward  as  by  a  flood  which  no  mortal 
strength  could  stem.  What  it  was  she  did  not 
know,  nor  whither  it  might  carry  her,  whether 
to  blessing  or  to  bale.  Milton's  seraphic 


HEARTS  FIRE  173 

beauty,  though  devastated  by  present  anguish 
and  prolonged  anxiety,  appeared  to  her  in  that 
moment  of  throbbing  tension  to  return  and 
with  it  a  grandeur  she  had  never  seen  before, 
a  grandeur  not  of  an  aspect  gentle  or  gracious, 
but  fierce,  imperious, — full  of  the  perilous 
brooding  fires  of  scorn,  as  if  of  an  archangel 
ruined. 

As  she  looked  and  listened  Delme'  lost  her 
sense  of  the  small  realities  of  time  and  place, 
habit  and  convention.  Within  her  a  myste 
rious  voice  awoke  and  she  heard  as  with  her 
outward  ear  the  word : 

"Some  time  this  man  whom  you  so  reverence 
will  discover  that  you  are  no  longer  a  child.  He 
will  ask  you  to  leave  all  to  follow  him;  what  will 
you  do?" 

Swiftly  she  seemed  to  herself  to  answer: 

"Nothing  could  hold  me  back;  the  world 
would  be  well  lost.  He  is  kingly,  Jove-like.  I 
should  glory  in  sacrificing  to  him  all  a 
woman  can." 

And  still  the  great  chords  and  discords 
crashed  on. 

"Delme'!    Delme'!" 


174   POET,    LAW,    AND  LADY 

Milton's  voice  seemed  to  float  to  her  ears 
from  some  far  cloudy  height  and  a  weight  like 
lead  held  her  eyes  close  sealed.  The  music 
had  ceased. 

"Oh,  please — I  cannot,"  she  murmured 
vaguely. 

Then  her  hands  were  taken  in  a  strong 
grasp  and  chafed,  and  through  her  drooping 
eyelids  she  felt  piercing  glances  of  urgent 
solicitude.  With  all  her  might,  then,  she 
roused  herself,  withdrew  her  hands,  and  lifted 
her  eyes,  smiling  wanly. 

"You  fainted,  Delme",  sitting  quietly  here  in 
your  place.  Are  you  better?  How  did  it 
chance?  Was  it  my  fault,  wretch  that  I  am, 
pouring  out  my  heady  vapourings  upon  you, 
poor  little  one,  until  you  could  bear  no 
more?  Shall  I  go  for  Dr.  Davies?" 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Milton,  and  it  was  not  at  all 
your  fault.  I  am  very  strong  now,"  she  added 
faintly. 

He  sat  down  beside  her  then  and  taking  her 
wrist  in  his  hand  very  gravely  tried  the  pulse. 
Delink  trembled.  Could  his  nice  touch  dis 
cern  the  very  passion  of  her  heart?  Milton's 


HEART'S  FIRE  175 

eyes  seemed  fascinated  by  the  hand  which  lay 
in  his.  It  was  small,  finely  slender,  weak 
just  now,  and  yet  it  was  not  a  child's  hand, 
and  the  heart  that  sent  its  high  tide  surging 
through  the  delicate  wrist  under  the  pressure 
of  his  fingers  was  not  a  child's  heart.  Was 
he  at  last  about  to  divine  this?  Despite  her 
languor  and  confusion,  Delme'  distinctly  felt 
herself  on  a  perilous  margin,  for  if  her  pulse 
did  not  betray  her  might  not  his  glance  sur 
prise  the  rapture  of  surrender  lingering  in 
her  eyes?  She  rose,  hastily  withdrawing  her 
hand,  averting  her  face. 

Milton  rose  also,  and  seeing  the  girl's  slight 
frame  waver  as  she  stood,  held  out  his  arm  to 
support  her. 

"No!"  she  cried  with  sudden  energy; — 
"you  cannot.  You  must  not." 

Without  another  word,  she  left  the  room, 
but  before  Milton  had  had  time  to  reason 
upon  what  might  underlie  her  abrupt  repel 
ling,  Mistress  Davies  appeared  with  kindly 
welcome,  and  the  announcement  that  dinner 
was  served.  From  the  family  meal  Delme'  was 
absent,  sending  word  that  she  suffered  from  a 


176    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

slight  headache  and  begged  that  she  might  be 
excused. 

That  same  evening  when  they  were  alone 
Delme'  said  to  her  mother  that  if  she  would 
give  her  leave  it  was  her  wish  to  go  for  a  time 
to  her  uncle's  in  Canterbury. 

"And  why,  child?"  asked  Mistress  Davies, 
not  a  little  surprised.  "Are  you  not  satisfied 
here?" 

Delme'  smiled,  but  her  smile  was  forced  and 
unlike  her. 

"I  cannot  tell  why,"  she  said  hesitatingly, 
"I  do  not  really  know,  myself;  but  I  feel  it 
better  that  I  go,  believe  me." 

Her  mother  looked  keenly  in  Her  face.  She 
respected  Delme'  deeply. 

"And  when  would  you  go?"  she  asked  pres 
ently. 

"By  the  coach  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"But  this  is  sudden!  Would  it  not  be  bet 
ter  to  send  by  post  first  to  inquire  if  it  suit 
your  aunt  to  have  you?" 

"It  always  suits  Aunt  Marie  to  have  me." 

"And  it  never  suits  me  to  spare  you,"  and 
the  mother  laughed  fondly,  "but  I  will  not 


HEART'S  FIRE 


hold  you  back  for  that.  I  see  something  is 
working  within  you  and  driving  you  forth." 
Without  reply  Delme',  grown  tall  now,  and 
slim  and  straight  as  a  young  poplar,  bent  and 
kissed  Madeleine,  who  seeing  tears  welling  in 
her  eyes  felt  a  pang  as  mothers  do  when  they 
perceive  that  their  daughters  can  have  sorrow 
and  struggle  into  which  it  is  not  theirs  to 
enter. 


XIII 

WINCEEY 

COACHING  along  old  Watling  Street, 
the  highroad  from  London  to  Canter 
bury,  over  the  Kentish  downs  and  through  the 
autumn  orchards  and  copses,  Delink  Davies 
was  set  down  just  before  sunset  of  Friday 
evening  in  the  sober  old  town  of  Rochester. 
Here  were  friends  of  her  family  with  whom  she 
spent  the  night,  rising  bright  and  early  in  the 
crisp  October  morning  to  take  the  stage-coach 
for  the  remaining  thirty  miles  or  so  of  her 
journey.  A  very  respectable  old  lady  in  whose 
charge  Delme'  had  been  placed  on  leaving  Lon 
don  by  her  stepfather,  left  the  coach  at  Sit- 
tingbourne  two  hours  after  the  start  from 
Rochester,  and  it  was  while  waiting  here  that 
Delme'  first  heard  news  of  fighting  in  the  East 
Country  on  the  day  before. 

A  cavalry  horse,  his  skin  flecked  with  foam 
from  hard  riding,  stood  at  the  inn  door,  where 

178 


WINCEBY  179 


the  coach  was  held  for  some  minutes  in  order 
to  water  the  four  horses.  Within  the  inn, 
Delme',  leaning  from  the  coach  window,  saw 
a  trooper  of  the  Ironsides  in  torn  and  stained 
regimentals  sitting  with  a  pot  of  ale  before 
him,  giving  between  draughts  concise  answers 
to  questions  asked  him  in  quick  succession  by 
a  group  of  eager  yeomen. 

"At  Winceby?" 

"Aye,  masters,  near  to  Horncastle." 

"A  battle  you  say,  a  pitched  battle?" 

"Nay,  but  a  bit  of  sharp  fighting,  and  we 
gave  the  enemy  a  hot  chase  and  smote  them 
hip  and  thigh,  for  the  Lord  gave  them  into  our 
hand." 

A  fierce  shout  of  exultation  from  the  towns 
men  told  that  their  sympathies  were  not  with 
the  King. 

"Who  commanded  for  us?" 

"Old  Noll,  be  sure,  and  Fairfax.  Sir  John 
Henderson  led  the  Cavaliers." 

"The  first  victory  in  many  a  long  day! 
'Twill  turn  the  tide  back  again!"  and  the  low 
inn  roof  resounded  with  fiery  cheers. 

The  trooper  rose  and  came  out  to  the  inn 


180    POET,    LAW,    AND  LADY 

door,  followed  by  his  listeners,  some  of  whom 
addressed  themselves  to  caring  for  his  horse 
with  almost  affectionate  interest,  seeing  he 
had  brought  such  news  all  the  way  from  Lin 
colnshire.  Delme'  from  the  coach  window 
beckoned  to  the  fellow,  who  approached  with 
a  clumsy  reverence. 

"I  have  heard  you  speaking  of  a  battle  by 
Horncastle.  Did  you  say  Colonel  Cromwell 
was  in  command?" 

"Aye,  mistress.  He  led  the  van,  did  Oliver 
himself  on  his  big  black  stallion,  and  wre  fol 
lowed  him;  our  men  singing  psalms  as  we 
came  on  the  field,  the  Lord  of  Hosts  himself 
being  with  us.  However,  in  the  first  charge 
the  black  horse  was  killed  under  the  Colonel, 
and  he,  being  thrown,  had  much  to-do  to  get 
his  footing  again,  and  'twas  no  sooner  got 
than  a  blow  from  a  pike  on  his  helmet  struck 
him  down  again." 

Delme'  clasped  her  hands  hard  and  gave  a 
cry  of  dread. 

"Nay,  mistress,  give  yourself  no  sorrow. 
Oliver  can't  be  got  rid  of  that  fashion.  The 
Angel  of  the  Lord  overshadows  him  on  the 


WINCEEY  181 


field.  I'd  but  a  sorry  horse  myself,  not  half 
so  good  as  that  beast  yon  even,  but  I  was  by 
good  luck  near  and  gave  it  him  on  the  spot 
when  he  got  to  his  feet  and  after  that — Lord, 
how  he  did  fight,  and  how  he  routed  the 
enemy!  God  made  them  as  stubble  before 
him!" 

Delme'  had  grown  white  with  so  fresh  a 
taste  of  the  reality  of  battle,  yet  was  not  ready 
to  let  the  messenger  go.  Behind  him  a  dozen 
or  more  men  pressed  close  with  eager,  listen 
ing  faces.  The  postilion  had  mounted  to  his 
place  on  the  coach  and  the  driver  had 
gathered  the  reins  in  his  hand  for  starting,  yet 
stood,  one  foot  on  the  forewheel,  listening  for 
yet  a  word  or  two  more  of  the  great  news. 

"Do  you  know  if  certain  reinforcements  un 
der  Major  Unwin  reached  the  army  before  the 
fighting?" 

Delme'  asked  the  question  with  lips  which 
trembled,  and  yet  with  a  thrill  of  eagerness 
for  Prosper  to  have  had  his  share  in  the  glory 
of  the  victory. 

"That  they  did,  mistress,  though  but  just  in 
time  and  by  fierce  riding  night  and  day,"  an- 


182  POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

swered  the  soldier.  "They  did  their  part  well 
to  save  the  day  too,  both  the  Major  and  the 
raw  troop  with  him,  but  he  fell,  poor  lad !  and 
by  your  leave,  lady,  I  have  business  upon  that 
from  Colonel  Cromwell  himself,  that  lets  me 
not  bide  longer  here.  I  must  mount  and  ride 
to  Canterbury  as  fast  as  I  may." 

The  trooper  turned  abruptly,  the  crowd  fell 
back,  the  driver  sprang  up  to  his  seat,  and  the 
coach  w^as  already  in  motion,  when  a  cry 
of  distress  from  Delink  caused  some  one  to 
signal  the  coach  to  stop.  At  her  urgent  re 
quest  the  messenger  from  Cromwell  was  pre 
vailed  upon  to  leave  his  horse  at  the  inn  to 
await  his  return  and  to  proceed  by  coach  on 
the  last  stage  of  his  journey  to  Canterbury. 
Sheepishly  and  with  awkward  reluctance  the 
fellow  then  took  his  seat  for  a  time  inside 
the  coach,  that  so  the  lady  from  London 
might  have  further  conversation  with  him. 

At  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes  the  man  burst 
open  the  door  as  the  horses  slackened  pace 
at  a  long  hill,  and  scrambled  up  to  a  seat 
where  he  might  feel  better  at  ease  beside  the 
driver.  Delme',  left  alone  now,  for  she  was  the 


WINCEBY  183 


solitary  inside  passenger  after  Sittingbourne, 
went  over  and  over  in  her  mind  the  points 
in  the  man's  short  and  startling  story.  For 
the  first  time  in  many  days  the  image  of  John 
Milton  faded,  receding  to  give  place  in  her 
imagination  to  that  of  Prosper  Unwin,  lying 
wounded,  dying  perhaps,  alone  among  stran 
gers.  By  an  error  in  judgment  on  the  part  of 
his  superior  officer,  according  to  the  mes 
senger,  the  young  major  had  been  sent  late  in 
the  engagement  at  Winceby  with  a  small  com 
pany  of  horse  to  drive  a  detachment  of 
Cavalier  soldiers  from  a  position  they  had 
taken  commanding  the  ford  of  a  stream.  This 
small  river,  swollen  by  the  autumn  rains,  fur 
nished  a  serious  obstacle  in  Henderson's  re 
treat.  A  mile  farther  down  stream,  however, 
a  bridge  unguarded  gave  the  Royalists  a  bet 
ter  means  of  escape  and  rendered  the  ford  a 
point  of  no  strategic  consequence.  Whether 
Major  Unwin  knew  that  the  order  to  charge 
the  detachment  at  the  ford  was  a  blunder  or 
no  (the  officer  giving  it  appeared  to  have  been 
a  boastful,  bombastic  man),  he  obeyed  orders 
and  accomplished  his  mission  successfully 


184    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

against  heavy  odds.  It  was  a  bloody  en 
counter,  however,  attended  with  woeful  and 
needless  loss  of  life.  The  Major  had  been  shot 
through  the  thigh;  and  of  his  fellow-soldiers, 
some  killed  and  wounded,  the  others  scattered, 
none  were  able  to  give  him  aid.  It  was  night 
fall  and,  darkness  coming  on  suddenly,  he  was 
left  lying  all  night  where  he  fell,  in  a  chilling 
rain.  Next  morning  the  men  discovered  him 
and  reported  his  condition,  which  appeared 
serious,  to  Cromwell.  The  Colonel,  then  ob 
liged  to  fall  back  rapidly  in  the  direction  of 
Ely,  showed  the  young  officer  marked  kind 
ness,  and  attempted  to  convey  him  with  the 
army.  The  regimental  surgeon  finding  the 
long  marches  too  severe  for  the  wounded  man 
however,  Prosper  was  left  behind  with  two  at 
tendants  at  March,  a  dozen  miles  to  the  north 
ef  Ely,  and  the  messenger  sent  post-haste  with 
a  letter  from  Cromwell  to  his  friend,  Master 
Anthoine  Unwin  in  Canterbury,  advising  him 
of  his  son's  situation. 

No  outward  circumstance  of  the  journey 
from  Sittingbourne  to  Canterbury  registered 
an  impression  upon  Beimels  consciousness. 


WINCEEY  185 


Every  faculty  of  her  mind  was  concentrated 
intensely  on  the  situation  of  painful  anxiety 
so  unexpectedly  revealed  to  her.  When, 
early  in  the  afternoon,  she  alighted  from  the 
coach  in  Mercery  Lane  followed  solemnly  by 
Cromwell's  messenger,  her  mind  was  fully 
made  up  as  to  what  must  be  done,  and  she  was 
ready  to  command  the  line  of  action  in  a  man 
ner  worthy  of  a  general. 

Her  unexpected  coming  was  hailed  with 
joy  by  her  Aunt  Marie,  who  was  ailing  with 
rheumatism ;  a  servant  was  sent  running  down 
to  the  garden  for  the  master  and  to  the  study 
for  Master  Philip,  and  so  in  short  order  the 
household,  all  unaware  of  aught  impending, 
was  gathered  together.  Meanwhile  the  sol 
dier,  unobserved  by  the  family,  was  accommo 
dated  in  the  kitchen  with  food  and  drink. 
With  steady  courage  Delink  then  unfolded 
the  story  to  these  three  so  vitally  involved 
in  the  issue,  and  while  disguising  nothing,  con 
trived  to  infuse  into  all  their  minds  a  con 
tagion  of  hope  and  cheer  which  lightened  the 
weight  of  their  anxiety. 

The  messenger  was  then  permitted  to  de- 


186    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

liver  his  Colonel's  letter,  rewarded,  and  sped 
on  his  return  way.  Plans  were  made  rapidly ; 
the  young  girl,  almost  insensibly  to  the  others, 
leading  their  thoughts  in  the  channel  she  had 
been  mentally  preparing  on  her  lonely  jour 
ney.  The  afternoon  would  be  spent  in  secur 
ing  saddle  horses,  a  driver,  and  a  second  pair 
of  stout  road  horses  with  a  covered  carrier's 
cart  in  which  a  mattress  could  be  laid;  all 
the  space  available  in  the  cart  was  then  to  be 
filled  with  cordials,  medicines,  linen,  bandages, 
and  every  needed  surgical  appliance.  Here 
Delme',  familiar  with  the  details  of  her  step 
father's  profession,  was  easily  the  head,  and 
gave  out  rapidly  and  clearly  the  orders  for  all 
the  various  requirements. 

The  start  for  March  was  to  be  made  at  four 
the  following  morning,  at  which  time  Delme' 
promised  to  be  ready  herself,  fresh  and  rested 
and  fit  for  any  hardships.  For  to  the  surprise 
of  them  all,  the  girl  declared  it  her  fixed  pur 
pose  to  accompany  the  relief  expedition  of  her 
uncle  and  Philip,  that  their  wounded  hero 
might  not  suffer  lack  of  a  woman's  nursing. 


XIV 
HEARTS  DEW 


"Yes,  ...  I  am  coming." 
"Come  back,  dear  Prosper." 
"I  am  trying.  ...  Is  that  Delme'?" 
"Yes,"  with  infinite  gentleness,  —  "DelmeV 
"Darling  .  .  .  little  .  .  .  Delink.     Did  you 

call  me?" 

"Uncle  Anthoine  says,  Prosper,  I  must  tell 

you  something.  .  .  .  Can  you  listen?" 
"I  hear  you  —  every  word." 
"They  say,  dear,  that  you  may  not  be  with 

us,  may  not  be  in  this  life  when  it  is  morning 

again." 

In  the  beating  silence  Delme'  held  Prosper's 

hand  in  both  her  own  as  she  knelt  beside  him, 

covering  it  with  a  woman's  kisses  and  tears 

of  heart-breaking  tenderness. 

It  was  a  comfortless  cottage  chamber  where, 

on  a  lowly  bed,  the  wounded  man  lay  under 

187 


188    POET,    LAW,    AND  LADY 

the  darkened  rafters.  In  the  poor  room  ad 
joining,  on  the  bare  floor,  in  the  gathering 
gloom  of  the  autumn  evening,  Anthoine  Un- 
win  and  his  older  son  knelt  together,  wres 
tling  in  prayer  to  God  for  the  life  so  deeply 
dear  to  them. 

The  flush  of  burning  fever  was  on  Prospers 
face.  He  had  lain  long  with  closed  eyes,  but 
now,  when  he  opened  them,  they  were 
strangely  bright  and  yet  unseeing.  Again  he 
spoke,  and  his  voice  surprised  Delink  by  its 
strength. 

"I  am  not  afraid.  .  .  .  The  Captain  .  .  . 
of  my  Salvation  .  .  .  will  not  fail  me.  .  .  . 
Tell  my  father  .  .  .  mother,"  his  voice  died 
away  again  and  Delme^s  eyes  grew  blind  with 
tears. 

"I  feel  your  tears,  my  girl.  .  .  they  quench 
my  thirst  .  .  .  they  fall  on  my  heart  .  .  . 
like  dew,  .  .  .  Delink,  do  you  care  ...  so 
much?" 

"Beyond  words,  Prosper;  oh,  my  dear,  we 
cannot  let  you  go." 

"If  you  care  .  .  .  Deluxe"  .  .  .  what  use 
...  is  dying?  .  .  .  Pray." 


HEART'S  DEW  189 

"Lord,  look  down ;  pity  our  sorrow ;  give  him 
Thy  grace;  touch  him  with  Thy  power,  to 
heal." 

The  simple,  broken  words  faltered  and 
failed  her,  and  she  bent  her  brow  upon  Pros- 
per's  hand.  With  a  mighty  effort  the  suffer 
ing  man  lifted  the  other  hand  and  laid  it  on 
the  girl's  head,  murmuring  softly : 

"There,  there,  little  Delme'.  .  .  .  Good 
night.  .  .  .  Don't  cry.  ...  I  shall  sleep." 

At  the  midnight  watch  Philip  found  Pros 
per  sleeping  a  peaceful,  refreshing  sleep, 
while  Delme',  crouching  on  the  floor  by  the 
side  of  the  cot,  slept  also,  his  hand  upon  her 
head.  Philip  sent  her  away  to  rest  and  took 
her  place.  At  dawn  Philip  saw  that  the  fever 
was  gone  and  beckoned  his  father  to  come  and 
see  the  sure  change  for  the  better.  So  these 
two  strong  men  who  loved  him  clasped  hands 
over  their  soldier's  narrow  bed,  thanked  God, 
and  took  courage. 

Two  days  later,  the  improvement  continu 
ing  in  Prosper's  condition  but  an  unconquer 
able  restlessness  possessing  him  and  a  longing 
for  home,  he  was  placed  in  the  home-made  am- 


190   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

bulance,  Delme'  seated  beside  him,  and  the 
little  cavalcade,  headed  by  Anthoine  and 
Philip  on  horseback,  began  its  slow  progress 
southward.  That  night  they  slept  at  Ely,  the 
next  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds  at  the  Angel 
Tavern. 

Prosper,  on  first  being  placed  in  the  great 
luxurious  bed  in  the  fine  old  best  room  of 
the  Angel,  fell  sound  asleep,  then  woke  at 
nine,  and  saw  in  the  moonlight  which  poured 
through  the  open  casement  that  Delme'  sat,  a 
quiet,  pensive  figure,  watching.  For  the  first 
time  since  she  had  known  of  her  cousin's  ex 
tremity  the  girl's  thoughts  had  been  with 
drawn  from  him  to  their  old  centre.  His 
voice  startled  her  as  if  from  a  dream. 

Instinctively  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  took  a 
glass  of  medicine  from  its  place,  and  ap 
proached  the  bedside. 

"I  don't  want  that,"  said  the  major,  smil 
ing  drowsily;  "I  want  you." 

"You  have  me,  Prosper,  always,  except  when 
Philip  makes  me  leave  you." 

"Not  always.  You  were  far  away  just 
then." 


HEART'S  DEW  191 

The  girl  fancied  his  mind  disturbed  by  re 
turning  fever  and  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his 
forehead. 

"Do  you  know  I  am  getting  well,  Delme'?" 
he  asked  then,  a  child's  simple  gladness  on  his 
face. 

"I  know  you  are.  We  are  all  happy,  thank 
ful  beyond  words." 

"There  is  nothing  in  my  heart  but  thanks 
giving  and  love." 

"Nor  in  mine Yes,  there  is  one  other 

thing,  Prosper.  That  is  indignation.  It  is 
hard  for  me  to  forgive  that  stupid,  blundering 
officer  who  ordered  you  at  the  risk,  and  al 
most  at  the  cost  of  your  life,  to  attack  that 
useless  point — that  ford." 

"What  do  you  know  about  my  orders, — 
about  the  charge?"  in  great  surprise. 

"Oh,  I  know.  I  know  how  you  dashed 
straight  into  the  thick  of  peril,  and  I  love  you 
for  it,  but  I  almost  hate  the  man  who  made 
you  go.  Such  orders  ought  never  to  be  obeyed. 
It  is  inhuman." 

"Hush,  DelmeV' 

"You  knew  all  the  time  you  were  doing  the 


192    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

thing  that  it  was  needless ;  did  you  not,  Pros 
per?  Tell  me  that." 

"I  knew.    Certainly." 

"Then  it  would  have  been  better  not  to  obey, 
to  my  thinking.  Remember  what  we  have  all 
— what  many  others — have  suffered " 

Beimels  eyes  flashed  her  young  and  fervid 
wrath,  but  the  light,  in  Prosper's  eyes  checked 
her.  Abruptly  she  stopped  speaking. 

"All  wrong,  my  girl,"  he  said  bluntly. 
"You  have  taken  the  thing  by  the  wrong 
end." 

There  was  a  little  silence  in  which  a  touch 
of  Beimels  defiance,  if  unspoken,  might  be  felt. 

"What  is  one  life,  Delme',  compared  with 
bringing  misrule  into  an  army?" 

Prosper  asked  the  question  with  a  severity 
she  had  never  heard  in  his  voice  before  and 
which  caused  the  words  to  live  long  in  her 
memory. 

"In  war,"  he  added  presently,  "the  loss  of  a 
life  is  an  incident ;  the  subverting  of  discipline 
is  a  catastrophe.  ...  I  know  not  if  it  be 
otherwise  in  life,"  he  added  slowly. 

"Will  you  go  to  sleep  now,  Prosper?"  Delme' 


HEART'S  DEW  193 

asked  with  sudden  meekness.  "I  am  afraid  I 
have  tired  you  with  talking.  Forgive  me." 

Prosper  smiled. 

"Yes,  if  you  will  be  a  good  girl  and  not  say 
such  things  again,  nor  think  such  thoughts. 
It  is  honour  not  to, — honour  is  obedience, 
DelmeV' 

She  went  back  to  her  place  in  the  open 
window,  and  leaned  out,  watching  the  noble 
Abbey  gateway  leading  to  the  ancient  shrine 
of  Saint  Edmund.  Mystically  beautiful  in  the 
white  moonlight  she  thought  it.  When  she 
turned  back  to  the  room  some  minutes  later, 
Prosper  was  asleep.  His  features,  refined  by 
his  sufferings,  showed  nobly  calm  and  full 
of  peace.  Something  of  the  still,  stern  majesty 
of  a  recumbent  warrior's  effigy  rested  upon 
him  as  he  lay. 

As  she  looked,  unconsciously  tears  fell  from 
Beimels  eyes,  tears  of  sweet  subduing,  not  of 
sorrow  or  of  passion.  Prosper  was  leal,  noble, 
knightlike;  to-night  something  in  his  words 
brought  a  new  peace  after  the  strong  upheaval 
of  her  nature  of  scarcely  a  week  ago.  "Honour 
is  obedience,"  he  said,  and,  "What  is  one  life 


194   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

compared  with  bringing  misrule  into  an 
army?"  The  question  forced  itself  again  and 
yet  again  upon  her.  And  Delink  grew  hot  and 
cold,  for  she  was  carried  back  against  her  will 
with  intense  recollection  to  that  breathless 
moment  when,  with  Milton's  mighty  music 
crashing  about  her,  she  had  heard  the  mysteri 
ous  inner  voice  saying:  When  this  man  asks 
you  to  leave  all  and  folloiv  him,  what  will 
you  dof  She  did  not  know  what  the  question 
signified  nor  what  her  heart's  secret  answer, 
yet  she  felt  profoundly  that  in  that  whirlwind 
of  passion  a  temper  like  this  had  had  no  place. 

The  child  spirit  of  single-minded  submission 
to  duty  regained  sway  within  her.  She  knelt 
by  Prosper's  bed,  looked  upon  his  solemn, 
sleeping  face,  and  said  within  herself : 

"I  will  be  strong  and  still  like  that  also,  and 
I  will  be  killed  if  need  be,  too.  Oh,  my  God, 
suffer  me  not  for  any  pains  of  death  to  fall 
away  from  Thee." 


XV 

A  FORGER   OF  THUNDERBOLTS 

IN  the  fragrant,  fair  guest-chamber  of  the 
Unwin  house  in  Mercery  Lane,  its  win 
dows  looking  toward  Christ  Church  gate 
and  the  south  porch  of  the  great  cathedral, 
Prosper  was  laid.  And  there  he  was  nursed 
by  his  mother  with  such  skill  that  in  a  fort 
night  his  wound  was  well  toward  healing,  and 
he,  though  still  weak  from  fever  and  loss  of 
blood,  began  to  talk  of  going  forward  in  a 
month's  time  to  his  colours. 

In  spite  of  pain  and  languor  the  days  which 
followed  were  to  the  young  major's  mind  the 
pleasantest  in  his  life — a  life  which  had  no 
doubt  of  late  been  harsh  and  rugged.  For 
Delme'  was  all  day  long  at  his  service,  coming 
and  going  on  his  errands  with  sweetest  solici 
tude.  She  seemed  to  have  not  a  care  now  or  a 
thought  beyond  the  walls  of  his  father's  house, 
and  the  little,  girlish  ways  of  contradiction 

195 


196    POET,   LAW,    AND  LADY 

and  disregard  with  which  she  used  oftentimes 
to  meet  him  were  changed  to  a  quiet,  womanly 
devotion,  through  which  ran  always  the  bright 
thread  of  her  arch  and  playful  humour. 

"You  have  never  told  me  what  it  was 
brought  you  down  to  Canterbury,  Delme',  at 
just  the  time  we  fought  at  Winceby,"  he  com 
mented,  as  she  sat  by  his  bed  on  an  afternoon 
toward  the  end  of  October.  "You  had  no 
thought  of  it,  as  I  knew,  that  day  when  I  was 
with  you  in  Trinity  Court." 

"I  cannot  tell,  Prosper,"  said  the  girl,  "un 
less  I  was  moved  by  a  good  Providence  to  be 
here  when  you  were  wounded,  and  my  aunt 
really  in  need  of  me.  Here  I  am,  at  least;  so 
make  the  best  of  it.  Shall  I  read  on?"  With 
which,  as  if  not  curious  to  pursue  the  subject, 
she  returned  to  the  book  she  was  reading  to 
him,  a  new  volume  of  verses  by  Master  George 
Wither,  the  Puritan  poet  and  soldier. 

"Yes.  Read,  please,  the  song  you  read  yes 
terday,  that  one  with  the  saucy  refrain." 

"  '  Be  she  fairer  than  the  Day 
Or  the  flowry  meads  in  May, 
If  she  thinke  not  well  of  me 
What  care  I  how  faire  she  be  ? ' " 


FORGER   OF  THUNDERBOLTS  197 

read  Delme'  with  a  touch  of  gay  defiance,  well 
fitting  the  words. 

"All  I  have  to  say  is  that  Wither  is  a  lucky 
fellow,  or  else  lies!"  broke  in  Prosper,  look 
ing  wanly  but  with  undisguised  delight  at  the 
girl's  face,  her  transparent  cap,  the  exquisite 
freshness  of  the  white  lawn  folds  over  her 
breast,  the  soft  blue  woollen  skirt  draping  her 
firm  girlish  shape  chastely.  Everything  about 
Delme'  took  on  her  virginal  daintiness,  with 
the  peculiar  elegance  and  piquancy  of  the 
Frenchwoman  added. 

"Not  care!"  he  muttered,  then  stopped  and 
drew  a  long,  expressive  sigh. 

"Be  still,  Major  Unwin!  Do  not  inter 
rupt,"  said  Delme'  with  mock  severity,  and 
read  on  rapidly  over  several  perilous  passages 
to  the  final  lilt : 

"  '  If  she  slight  me  when  I  woe, 
I  can  scorne  and  let  her  goe ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? ' " 

"Scorn  and  let  her  go !"  cried  Prosper  scorn 
fully;  "much  Wither  knows  about  love! 
Delme',  do  you  think  I  could  do  that?  Do  you 


198    POET,   LAW,  AND  LADY 

think  I  could  ever  cease  to  care,  whomso 
ever  you  should  choose  above  me;  do  you 
think " 

"Hush !"  admonished  Delme',  reddening  and 
rising;  then  patting  one  limp,  bleached  hand 
in  a  soothing  and  most  motherly  manner; — 
"you  forget,  Prosper,  what  the  doctor  has  said 
about  exciting  yourself  and  bringing  on  fever 
again.  This  will  not  do  #t  all.  Will  you  be 
good,  or  shall  I  go  leave  you?" 

She  bent  and  laid  her  cool  little  hand  on  his 
head;  tears  filled  the  rugged  soldier's  eyes  as 
he  looked  up  and  saw  the  kindness  of  her 
face.  He  knew  that,  save  for  that  one  dim 
night  at  March,  she  had  never  been  so  near 
him,  for  some  reason,  as  just  then.  Some  in 
visible  influence  seemed  working  with  her,  he 
fancied,  in  his  behalf.  A  little  more  and  he 
would  dare  to  think  she  might  love  him. 

"I  will  do  anything,  Delme',  to  keep  you 
near,"  he  said  very  low;  then  broke  off  and 
seemed  to  listen.  "Is  some  one  coming  in  be 
low  with  Philip?  Do  you  hear  voices?"  He 
spoke  fretfully  now,  as  if  the  distant  sounds 
annoyed  him. 


"No  matter  for  voices,"  said  Delme'  in  her 
pacifying  nurse's  tone;  "they  do  not  concern 
us,  Prosper." 

But  why  did  the  hand  with  which  she 
smoothed  the  pillow  tremble  suddenly?  And 
why  did  she  walk  away  with  quickened  breath 
to  the  chamber  window,  looking  down  into 
the  lane,  her  face  turned  from  him? 

"It  is  time  for  your  sleeping  draught,"  she 
said  presently,  and  prepared  it  at  a  table  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  When  she  brought  it  to 
him,  Prosper's  gaunt  eyes  searched  her  face 
wTith  pathetic  anxiety.  In  truth  he  was  not 
mistaken  in  his  sick  fancy  that  a  sudden 
frost  had  fallen  on  her  heart's  blossoming  for 
him.  The  chill,  though  she  did  not  know  it, 
was  in  her  voice,  even  in  her  kind,  ministering 
hands. 

"Now  are  you  very  comfortable?"  she  asked, 
having  darkened  the  room. 

The  wounded  man  moved  his  head  on  the 
pillow  in  assent ;  his  eyes  were  closed.  Delme' 
did  not  dream  that  speech  was  impossible  to 
him  just  then ;  that  by  some  strange  intuition 
of  his  helplessness  he  divined  that  subtle  with- 


200    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

drawing  in  her  which  she  scarcely  recognized 
herself.  Immediately  she  left  the  room  with 
noiseless  steps,  closing  the  door  softly.  For 
some  minutes  Prosper  lay,  his  eyes  now  wide 
open,  seeking  in  every  corner  of  his  conscious 
ness  for  cause  for  the  indefinable  change  he 
had  felt  in  her.  Then,  no  clue  being  found 
and  the  medicine  working,  he  fell  asleep. 

At  the  head  of  the  stair  Delrne'  encountered 
her  Aunt  Marie. 

"I  have  just  given  him  his  afternoon 
draught,"  she  whispered. 

"Trust  you  not  to  forget.  You  must  come 
down  now  and  help  me  to  entertain  a  guest." 

"Who,  then?" 

"Mr.  John  Milton  has  come  in  but  now  with 
Philip,  being  just  off  the  London  coach.  He 
will  like  to  see  you." 

"I  believe  I  will  remain  up  here." 

"Mr.  Milton  has  some  great  thing,  I  under 
stand,  brought  with  him  of  his  writing,  just 
published,  that  he  is  for  reading  to  Philip." 

"Then  least  of  all  will  they  want  girls  run 
ning  in  to  divert  their  serious  discourse.  No, 
Aunt  Marie,  I  would  rather  stay  here,  on  the 


FORGER    OF  THUNDERBOLTS  201 

landing  with  your  roses,  and  listen  for  Pros 
per  than  go  below." 

The  busy  housewife,  plainly  relieved,  hur 
ried  down  to  her  maids  in  the  kitchen,  while 
Deline',  in  a  window  niche  of  the  wide  landing 
where  jars  of  roses  stood  at  the  foot  of  a  tall 
clock,  cuddled  down  wearily  on  a  cushion  and 
listened  for  sounds  either  from  below  or  above. 

She  had  known  that  Milton  was  in  the 
house,  known  it  at  the  moment  his  foot  crossed 
the  threshold,  more  by  intuition  than  by 
hearing.  Prosper  had  guessed  some  mysteri 
ous  change  in  her,  but  he  had  not  guessed  that 
her  heart  had  all  but  stopped  its  beating  and 
that  it  had  taken  all  the  stiffness  of  her  will 
to  steady  her,  while  she  stood  out  of  sight  pre 
paring  his  medicine.  She  was  thankful  to  be 
alone  for  a  while,  and  to  be  left  in  peace  to 
tutor  her  wild  heart  to  calmness  and  to  let  her 
reason  get  the  mastery  of  this  rebellious  pas 
sion.  Why,  oh,  why  could  she  not  love  Prosper 
as  he  wished  and  everybody  wished — she  her 
self  with  the  rest?  She  had  thought  it  possible 
just  now  up  yonder,  with  his  true  eyes  lifted 
in  their  unfathomable  loyalty  and  worship  to 


202    POET,    LAWy   AND  LADY 

her  own,  and  his  true  heart  laid  barer  to  her 
inner  vision  by  his  weakness  than  ever  it  had 
been  in  his  strength.  And  then  that  step  had 
come  below,  that  music  of  the  voice  with  its 
resistless  power,  and  set  all  the  tides  of  life 
within  her  to  highest  flood  and  swept  her  away 
far  beyond  Prosper's  reach,  beyond  the  reach 
of  reason  or  conscience  or  the  control  of 
aught  save  ecstasy. 

Was  she  glad  that  Milton  had  come?  It 
was  madness  rather  than  gladness,  for  it  was 
to  flee  from  him  she  had  left  London.  She 
could  not  trust  herself  to  meet,  as  chance 
might  make  her  at  any  turn,  that  appeal  of  his 
stern  and  bitter  loneliness,  his  humiliation,  his 
pain,  above  all  of  his  need  of  a  woman's  gentle 
ness.  She  had  felt  too  keenly  the  wild  tyranny 
of  passion  which  the  man  had  power  to  rouse 
within  her.  Only  in  flight,  just  then,  was 
safety. 

And  now  he  was  near  again.  If  she  dared, 
she  might  see  him.  Fragments  of  conversa 
tion  reached  her  from  the  room  below;  some 
times  it  was  Philip's  voice,  but  oftener  Mil 
ton's.  Delme'  trembled  as  in  her  childhood 


FORGER    OF  THUNDERBOLTS  203 

once  in  the  cathedral  when  he  had  sat  at  the 
organ,  and  in  that  other  breathless  hour  in 
her  own  home  when  she  had  fainted  beneath 
his  music. 

"You  have  been  working  on,  I  judge,"  she 
heard  Philip  say ;  heard  him  reply  that  he  was 
minded  not  to  "bate  one  jot  of  heart  or  hope, 
but  still  bear  up  and  steer  right  onward." 

Milton's  tone  was  perhaps  graver  than  of  old, 
but  a  new  note  of  something  great  and  proud 
beyond  his  wont  rang  through  his  words,  and 
made  her  glad. 

Not  long  after  he  began  reading  aloud,  and 
this  being  hard  to  follow  from  the  distance, 
Delinks  mind  strayed  to  thoughts  of  the 
reader  rather,  until  called  back  by  words  and 
phrases  caught  disjointedly  but  of  startling 
import.  "A  luckless  and  helpless  matri 
mony;"  "a  worse  condition  than  the  loneliest 
single  life;"  "a  mute  and  spiritless  mate;"  "a 
powerful  reluctance  and  recoil  of  nature  on 
either  side ;"  "enough  to  abase  the  mettle  of  a 
generous  spirit  and  sink  him  to  a  low  and 
vulgar  pitch  of  endeavour  in  all  his  actions." 
Such  were  a  few  of  the  phrases  which  made 


204   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

Delinks  ears  tingle.  What,  then,  could  this 
great  thing  be,  just  published? 

A  half-hour  passed  as  in  a  dream  to  the  be 
wildered  girl,  then  the  reading  ceased  and  a 
silence  fell.  Finally  she  heard  Philip  say, 

"Superb  if  poetry,  but  incredible  as  argu 
ment.  You  have  actually  published  this 
treatise?" 

"Yes,  albeit  without  the  legal  forms  of  li 
cense  and  registration,  which  to  my  mind 
fetter  the  liberty  of  thought  and  shall  be, 
please  God,  one  day  the  subject  of  fearless 
attack." 

"By  whom  is  it  printed?" 

"By  T.  P.  and  M.  S. — you  know  wrho  are 
represented  by  those  letters, — in  Goldsmith's 
Alley,  London.  This  is  the  motto:  'Every 
Scribe  instructed  to  the  Kingdome  of  Heav'n  is 
like  the  Maister  of  a  house  which  bringeth  out 
of  his  treasurie  things  old  and  new.' ' 

"Faith,  John,  you  have  brought  out  some 
thing  new  this  time!  At  least  it  is  anony 
mous.  Let  us  be  glad  of  that." 

"Even  so,  its  authorship  cannot  be  hid." 

"Have  you  considered  the  attitude  of  Parlia- 


ment?  Have  you  weighed  the  consequences 
to  yourself  of  such  boldness?" 

"Such  has  never  been  my  habit,  Philip,  when 
a  blow  was  to  be  struck  for  liberty.  You 
yourself  know  that  I  have  held  myself  conse 
crate  to  freedom  since  our  Cambridge  days, 
whether  freedom  of  speech,  of  thought,  action, 
or  worship.  I  am  not  like  to  act  in  this 
matter  with  the  calculation  of  a  cautious 
man." 

"But  all  men" — Philip  hesitated  here — "all 
men  will  say,  John,  that  in  this  particular 
matter  you  act  under  the  smart  of  ...  ." 

"Of  my  own  disaster  of  no-marriage,"  in 
terrupted  the  other  calmly.  "Do  not  fear  to 
speak  your  thought !  Possibly  most  men  may, 
but  I  think  there  be  those,  and  you  one,  old 
friend,  who  can  perceive  here  a  man  to  whom 
his  private  agony  gives  insight  into  public 
wrong,  and  who  acts  in  scorn  of  his  own 
proper  advantage,  not  for  sake  of  it,  for  the 
general  good." 

"How  do  you  style  your  pamphlet?" 

"'The  Doctrine  and  Discipline  of  Divorce 
Restored,  to  the  good  of  both  Sexes,  from 


206    POET,    LAW,    AND  LADY 

the  Bondage  of  Canon  Law  to  Christian 
Freedom.' " 

"And  it  is  your  serious  conviction  and  your 
plea  that  unfitness  of  mind  and  contrariety  of 
temper  are  as  great  cause  for  dissolution  of 
marriage  as  adultery  itself,  in  spite  of  our  law 
— civil  and  ecclesiastic?" 

"Yes,  Philip,"  Milton  burst  out.  "God  com 
mands  not  impossibilities,  and  all  the  ec 
clesiastical  glue  that  Liturgy  or  Laymen  can 
compound  is  not  able  to  sodder  up  two  incon 
gruous  natures  into  the  one  flesh  of  a  true 
beseeming  marriage !" 

"Such  a  tract  will  produce  a  violent  sen 
sation, — a  shock." 

"Probably,"  was  the  answer,  the  speaker 
now  wholly  composed  and  quiet.  "It  may  be 
somewhat  of  the  nature  of  a  thunderbolt." 

"And  what,  in  action,  can  possibly  be  ef 
fected  by  such  a  manifesto?" 

"A  change  from  the  superstition  of  Canon 
Law,  my  friend.  I  aim  at  nothing  less.  If  our 
side  wins  in  the  present  struggle  for  freedom, 
new  laws  will  soon  be  in  the  making,  Philip, 
for  the  new  Commonwealth.  It  takes  no  bold 


FORGER    OF  THUNDERBOLTS  207 

flight  of  fancy  to  conceive  that,  if  such  things 
come  to  pass,  my  voice  would  be  heard  at  West 
minister;  that  Parliment  would  give  me  a 
hearing  in  a  matter  of  such  large  and  immedi 
ate  human  concern." 

"  'Tis  a  great  enterprise  you  undertake,  and 
a  hazardous.  You  see  only  the  ideal,  spiritual 
elements  in  it  and  so  are,  as  ever,  sanguine  of 
noble  results.  To  my  mind,  if  you  could 
change  the  present  law,  instead  of  performing 
the  great  general  service  of  which  you  dream, 
John,  you  would  let  loose  an  unbridled  law 
lessness  which  yourself  would  be  last  to  in 
voke." 

"Nay,  Philip;  w^hat  I  would  do  would  be  to 
redeem  marriage  from  being,  as  it  now  often 
is  by  perverse  accident,  anarchy  in  effect, — a 
thwarting  of  the  divine  order  in  creation. 
The  cup  which  has  been  given  me  to  drink  has 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  sorrows  of  my  fellows, 
and  though  I  fight  alone,  I  purpose  through 
evil  report  or  good  report,  to  stand  as  advocate 
for  this  thesis." 

Philip  Unwin  groaned. 


XVI 

"A   WORLD   OF  DISESTEEM" 

WHITE  to  the  lips,  with  a  sense  of 
swift,   undreamed-of   wonders    hur 
rying    to    meet    her,    Delink    escaped    with 
light  feet  from  the  landing  to   the  chamber 
above. 

She  opened  the  door  and  saw  that  Prosper 
slept  quietly  and  that  all  needed  things  were 
within  his  reach.  To  bury  herself  again  in 
the  sick  room  seemed  impossible;  the  need  of 
freedom,  space,  movement,  solitude  was  strong 
upon  her.  She  found  her  Aunt  Marie  and  left 
Prosper  to  her  care ;  then,  by  the  garden  gate, 
unseen,  hastened  as  for  refuge  to  the  silence 
of  the  cathedral,  to  which  it  was  her  frequent 
habit  to  resort  for  her  private  devotion. 
Here  she  entered  the  south  transept,  crossed 
to  the  Martyrdom,  and  in  the  chapel  hard  by, 
knelt  and  prayed,  or  less  prayed  than  sought 
to  calm  her  heart  and  steady  her  thoughts,  set 
208 


"A   WORLD   OF  DISESTEEM"  209 

into  fierce  tumult  by  the  things  which  she 
had  just  heard. 

Coming  out  a  half-hour  later  into  the  clois 
ters,  it  did  not  surprise  Delme',  grown  quiet 
now  and  assured,  to  see  approaching  in  bodily 
presence  down  the  dim  grey  vista  the  man 
whose  image  ruled  her  thoughts. 

"Good-evening,  Delme'."  John  Milton 
greeted  her  with  a  firm,  resonant  voice  and  a 
smile  both  grave  and  sweet  and  like  her  mas 
ter  in  other  days.  "I  have  been  waiting  for 
you  to  appear.  They  told  me  it  was  here  one 
might  look  to  find  you  when  you  slip  from 
the  house  for  a  bit  of  rest." 

"You  are  welcome  to  Canterbury,  sir." 

Milton  felt  some  indefinable  change  in 
Delme'  as  she  spoke,  but  made  no  comment. 
They  walked  on  together  over  the  ancient,  elo 
quent  cloister  stones,  above,  the  cragged  grey 
arches  and  the  mighty  mass  of  towrer  and  but 
tress  rising,  and  still  above,  over  the  square 
of  green  turf  and  the  quiet  graves,  a  violet 
sky  suffused  with  the  flames  of  the  October 
sunset. 

"Philip  and  I  have  been  having  a  terrible 


210    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

wrangle  and  are  now  quite  at  swords'  points," 
Milton  said,  as  they  walked  on.  "I  was  tired 
of  fighting  and  so  wanted  to  see  the  little 
friend  who  never  tires  me.  Besides,"  he 
added,  with  a  touch  of  his  natural  humour, 
"if  I  leave  Philip  alone  he  will  the  sooner  come 
to  himself,  which  means,  you  see,  coming  to 
agree  with  me." 

"I  think  he  never  will,"  said  Delme'  soberly. 

Milton  glanced  quickly  into  her  face  and 
saw  some  traces  there  of  the  shock  she  had 
just  experienced,  saw  a  lovely  seriousness  and 
dignity  which  he  had  not  hitherto  divined  in 
the  spirited  child,  so  long  his  favourite  pupil 
that  he  had  missed  the  point  when  childhood 
was  'left  behind.  Did  she  know,  perhaps,  of 
this  that  he  had  just  made  known  to  Philip? 
Was  she  woman  enough  to  understand?  If  so, 
was  she  one  to  faint  and  tremble  and  draw 
away  from  him? 

He  hesitated  to  put  into  words  these  ques 
tions,  the  answers  to  which  might  bring  a 
deeper  hue  to  the  melancholy  of  his  life. 

He  found  nothing  to  say,  as  they  walked 
on. 


"A   WORLD   OF   DISESTEEM"  211 

"Let  us  go  home,"  said  Delme'  shortly,  un 
able  in  those  surroundings  to  conquer  the 
painful  constraint  which  seemed  falling  upon 
them  both.  They  left  the  cloisters,  and  cross 
ing  the  Green  Court,  took  the  grassy  path  by 
the  Stour's  margin  which  brought  them  soon 
to  a  garden  wall  in  which  was  a  small  gate. 
It  was  her  Uncle  Anthoine's  garden,  and  the 
gate,  as  Delme'  knew,  unlocked. 

"Do  not  go  into  the  house  yet,"  said  Milton, 
as  he  closed  the  gate  upon  their  entrance,  she 
standing  irresolute  at  the  junction  of  two 
paths,  one  leading  to  the  garden  door  of  the 
house,  the  other  to  a  shaded  path  under  the 
boundary  wall.  "I  have  something  to  say, 
DelHid  Let  us  take  this  path." 

His  voice  rang  with  the  imperative  of  strong, 
suppressed  feeling ;  she  yielded  without  hesita 
tion  as  he  took  her  hand,  and  he  led  her  into 
the  green  dusk  of  the  long,  flower-bordered 
alley.  Soon  he  paused  in  their  walking,  lay 
ing  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  so  turning  her  to 
face  him.  "Delm6,  little  friend,  did  you  hear 
me  just  now  reading  to  Philip?" 

The  question  came  with  a  certain  difficulty. 


212    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

"Yes,  partly." 

"Do  you  understand  what  I  have  done?" 

"I  think  so.  You  have  said,  and  publicly, 
that  when  a  husband  and  wrife  find  each  other 
hopelessly  unfit  and  unloving,  marriage  ought 
to  be  by  law  dissolved." 

Delme'  spoke  succinctly,  with  that  clear 
composure  which  now  and  again  startled 
him. 

"You  speak  as  if  this  were  no  great  thing. 
All  the  world,  howrever,  now  holds  that  there 
is  but  one  cause  for  divorce,  and  that  the 
grossest." 

There  was  no  maiden  blenching  at  these 
plain  words;  rather  the  freedom  and  firmness 
of  an  untainted  purity  in  the  look  which  met 
him. 

"Delme',  there  are  plenty  to  denounce  this 
Tractate  as  profane,  lawless,  and  licentious. 
Do  you  agree  with  them?" 

"Such  it  could  not  be.  I  understand  noth 
ing  of  law,  but  so  much  I  know." 

"There  are  others  who  will  see  in  it  a  self 
ish  special  plea  for  my  own  liberty.  Is  it  so 
to  your  thinking?  Can  you  comprehend  that 


"A  WORLD   OF  DISESTEEM"  213 

remarriage  has  never  entered  my  own  mind, 
as  for  me  possible;  that  a  man  may  seek 
for  others  what  he  does  not  seek  for  him 
self?" 

Delme'  bent  her  head,  turned  then,  and 
walked  slowly  forward,  not  speaking. 

"But  do  you  realize  that  nearly  all  men, 
even  of  my  own  party,  have  fallen  upon  this 
thing  of  mine  with  fury  and  execration? 
That  the  divines  at  Westminster  are  even  now 
hurling  anathemas  at  my  head  and  calling 
down  vengeance  upon  me  and  my  inventions?" 

Delink  held  her  head  a  thought  higher  and 
smiled  proudly. 

"Yes,"  Milton  went  on,  "I  shall  soon  be 
alone  in  a  world  of  disesteem,  Delme';  not  a 
merry  place  to  dwell  in,  I  promise  you." 

"Do  all  know  the  pamphlet  to  be  yours,  Mr. 
Milton?" 

"It  is  guessed  by  most  and  known  by  many, 
though  no  name  was  signed.  I  am  now  prepar 
ing  a  new  and  expanded  version,  which  I  shall 
sign  with  my  name  and  dedicate  to  Parlia 
ment." 

At  the  unexampled  boldness  with  which  he 


214  POET,    LAW,   AND  LADY 

fingered  his  next  thunderbolt  Delme',  instead 
of  gasping  with  dismay,  laughed  low  with  a 
gay  courage  which  thrilled  him. 

"You  are  laughing  when  all  others  groan, 
Delm&" 

"Yet  will  you  find  that  it  is  your  solemn 
friends  who  forsake  you  sooner  than  your 
merry  ones." 

"Then  you  are  not  minded  to  fall  away  with 
the  rest?" 

She  turned  swiftly  and  bent  upon  him  eyes 
radiant  with  a  splendour  of  unclouded  faith. 

"No,"  she  said,  loftily ;  "I  am  not  so  minded. 
It  is  not  my  way." 

In  the  look  and  words  the  girl  suddenly  re 
vealed  herself  fully  to  Milton.  Not  only  was 
she  woman,  not  child,  but  a  woman  of  noble 
intelligence,  heroic,  impassioned,  fearless  like 
himself,  capable  of  daring  all,  doing  and  en 
during  all  for  love,  if  she  loved.  Then,  and 
for  the  first  time,  it  broke  upon  him  that  the 
doctrine  for  which  he  stood  champion,  and 
which  he  had  proclaimed,  impartially  and 
without  ulterior  selfish  end,  might  lead  to  an 
issue  not  before  dreamed  of,  might  justify  life 


"A   WORLD   OF  DISESTEEM"  215 

out  of  death  even  to  himself.  The  light  which 
rose  in  his  face,  just  now  stern  and  haggard, 
gave  him  a  blinding  beauty  in  Delme's  sight. 
Her  eyes  fell  before  it,  her  limbs  trembled,  her 
breath  came  quick. 

"DelmeV' — a  sudden  breath  of  passion  made 
his  voice  low,  his  utterance  hasty, — "Delme', 
if  I  can  break  a  path  through  this  thick 
tangled  forest  of  convention,  a  path  of  honour 
and  of  law,  not  of  lawlessness,  would  you  dare 
to  follow  me?" 

"I  would  dare  anything  you  would  ask  me, 
— to  follow  you." 

Beimels  eyes  were  like  stars,  but  before 
them  the  pale  autumn  flowers  in  the  garden 
border  swam  dizzily.  Was  this  the  call  which 
had  come  to  her  heart  once  already  with  mys 
terious  power?  No,  for  that  had  a  darkness 
of  terror  in  its  rapture,  and  here  was  fair 
faith,  and  the  light  of  right  was  shed  abroad. 
For  was  not  her  master  whom  she  worshipped 
almost,  who  seemed  scarcely  less  to  her  imagi 
nation  than  a  demi-god,  was  he  not  to  find  a 
way  in  which  love  and  honour  and  incredible 
joy  might  run  together? 


216    POET,   LAW,    AND  LADY 

John  Milton  bent,  took  her  hand  in  his,  and 
lifted  it  reverently  to  his  lips. 

"  'Tis  a  great  trust,  dear  Delmey  he  said, 
solemnly.  "God  send  I  be  worthy  of  it.  I 
could  say  much  to  you,  if  it  were  my  right,  of 
love,  for  well  I  see  at  last  how  long  I  have 
loved  you,  yet  blundered  darkly  on  not  know 
ing  love  wrhen  it  was  mine,  thinking  it  my 
master's  partiality  for  the  favourite  scholar, 
mistaking  the  deep  woman's  heart  for  the 
ardour  of  an  eager  child.  We  are  scourged  for 
blunders  harder,  it  may  be,  than  for  sins,  my 
girl." 

"I  never  knew  myself,  perhaps  I  never  was 
myself,  sir,  until — you  were  left  alone." 

The  sadness  in  his  smile  pierced  her  heart. 
There  was  silence  for  many  moments,  then 
Milton  spoke  again,  even  more  gravely  than 
before. 

"It  is  not  my  right,  Delme',  to  speak  to  you 
of  love.  If  another  man  did  so  in  my  place  I 
should  be  first  to  condemn  him  as  dishonour 
able.  You  are  scarce  seventeen;  I  am  bound 
fast  in  fetters  which  only  my  own  convince- 
ment,  and  not  the  general  voice,  declares  can 


"A   WORLD   OF  DISESTEEM"  217 

ever  be  broken  while  I  live.  I  should  be  very 
coward  were  I  to  tinge  the  whiteness  of  your 
innocence  with  the  breath  of  a  passion  it  is  my 
part  to  hold  sternly  in  hand.  And  yet,  I  can 
not  altogether  let  you  go, — I  must  sometimes 
see  you,  feel  the  keen  joy  of  our  intellectual 
fellowship, — watch  over  your  studies — 

"Teach  me  how  to  play  my  virginals 
better  sometimes,"  broke  in  Delme',  and  in 
speaking,  laughed  in  her  na'ive  fashion,  feeling 
the  strain  upon  their  spirits  overgreat. 

"Rogue!"  he  cried;  "that  you  always  were 
and  always  will  be.  Behave  and  listen  to 
me  respectfully.  I  must  teach  both  our 
hearts  how  we  may  live  in  all  honour  and 
yet  with  such  heart's  ease  as  Heaven  may 
permit." 

"I  am  listening,  sir." 

"Then  I  say  this,"  proceeded  Milton :  "I  will 
take  no  advantage  of  your  maiden  gentleness, 
or  your  compassion,  or  your  love ;  I  leave  you 
free,  wholly,  completely;  pledging  myself  to 
trouble  you  in  nothing  until  these  clouds  have 
been  dispelled,  until  I  can  in  honour  hope  to 
make  you  my  wife.  But  until  such  time  come, 


218   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

whether  in  one  year  or  two,  or  even  more,  I 
ask  one  thing  of  you,  Delme', — one  only." 

"And  that  is " 

"And  that  is  much  for  a  man  as  lonely  and 
as  hard  bestead  as  I, — it  is  your  friendship 
and,  no  matter  what  storms  of  denunciation 
may  burst  upon  my  head, — your  faith  in 
me." 

"I  promise  both,"  and  she  held  her  lovely 
head  up  firmly  and  received  as  seal  upon  her 
forehead  his  kiss. 

"Never  again  until  I  have  the  right,"  he 
said,  solemnly. 


"  Mortals  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue ;  she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  you  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime ; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her." 

So  sang  Delme'  with  piercing  sweetness, 
and,  thinking  herself  alone,  her  whole  pent-up 
passion  for  Milton  thrilled  along  his  lines. 
But  Uncle  Anthoine  had  come  into  the  house 
unknown  to  her,  with  Prosper,  who  had 


"A   WORLD   OF  DISESTEEM"  219 

walked  for  the  first  time  as  far  as  the  High 
Street.  Both  men  called  "Brava!  brava!"  at 
which  she  bit  her  lip  and  was  silent. 

A  fortnight  had  passed  and  Delme'  was  to 
start  for  London  the  day  following.  Prosper 
had  found,  after  John  Milton's  brief  visit,  that 
his  cousin  possessed  some  new  and  secret 
spring  of  inner  life  of  which  it  was  not  given 
him  to  partake.  She  was  more  devoted  in  her 
ministration  to  himself  than  before,  but  that 
sweet  hope  of  a  stronger  tie  which  had  stirred 
so  mightily  within  him  was  dying,  quenched, 
he  sometimes  thought,  by  her  very  kindness. 
But  no  word  of  complaining  reached  Delme'. 
He  watched  her  now  with  eyes  full  of  honest 
devotion. 

"Whose  the  madrigal,  Delink?"  he  asked. 

"Mr.  John  Milton's." 

She  could  not  control  the  vibration  in  her 
voice  as  she  spoke  the  name. 

"I'd  rather  you  sang  another  man's  verses 
than  his,  my  girl,"  said  Uncle  Anthoine,  shak 
ing  his  head  heavily.  "Mr.  Milton  has  been 
led  away  of  late  into  strange  and  monstrous 
error,  we  hear." 


220   POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

"He  has  told  me  of  that  which  he  has  writ, 
Uncle,"  Delink  answered. 

"Has  he  told  you  that  at  Westminster  they 
preach  against  him  and  how  many  advise  that 
this  pamphlet  of  his  be  burnt  by  the  hangman 
in  the  public  square?" 

"Then  might  Mr.  Milton  be  almost  joined 
to  the  noble  Army  of  Martyrs,"  said  Deline", 
with  flashing  eyes. 

"Nay,  child,  talk  not  of  martyrs,"  it  was  her 
Aunt  Marie  coming  in  to  join  them  who  said 
this;  "a  man  is  not  martyred  for  holding  to 
immoral  doctrine  such  as  this  of  Divorce  at 
Pleasure." 

"That  is  not  what  Mr.  Milton  teaches," 
cried  Delme'  indignantly. 

"What  does  he  teach,  Deline"?"  asked  Pros 
per  quietly,  entering  the  discussion  for  the 
first  time. 

"That  when  marriage  becomes  worse  than 
no-marriage,  stripped  of  all  dignity  and  love, 
a  habit  of  wrath  and  abasement,  it  should  be 
annulled,"  she  answered,  with  slow  emphasis, 
the  colour  burning  vividly  in  her  cheeks. 
Her  aunt  and  uncle  listened  and  looked 


"A   WORLD   OF  DISESTEEM"  221 

on  in  amazement.  Prosper  said  with  fierce 
irony : 

"You  seem  to  have  learned  it  by  heart.  I 
should  think,  however,  that  not  even  John 
Milton  could  make  you  believe  it." 

"He  might,"  replied  Delme'  calmly,  "but 
he  has  not  tried." 

"He  had  better  not.  He  would  have  me  to 
reckon  with!"  cried  Prosper. 

"As  soon  argue  that  black  is  white," 
said  honest  and  much  troubled  Anthoine 
Unwin. 

"If  he  said  that,  I  should  doubtless  believe 
it,"  said  Delme',  not  flinching. 

"Ask  your  stepfather  what  he  thinks,"  said 
Prosper,  looking  with  stern,  fixed  gaze  in  her 
face.  "He  told  me,  when  here  the  other  day, 
that  Mr.  Milton  is  no  longer  welcome  at  his 
hearth." 

This  being  news  Delme'  lost  her  colour, 
though  not  her  courage. 

"The  loss  is  ours,"  she  said  coldly ;  "I  shall 
hope  for  the  honour  of  going  sometimes  where 
Mr.  Milton  is  welcome." 

"Oh,  Delme'!"  cried  her  Aunt  Marie,  "shame 


222    POET,   LAW,   AND  LADY 

upon  you;  you  a  maid  and  he  a  married  man 
with  a  wife  now  living!" 

Hot  tears  filled  Beimels  eyes.  Prosper,  see 
ing  her  brought  to  bay,  came  to  her  relief 
chivalrously. 

"Fair  play!"  he  cried,  forcing  a  smile. 
"Delink  is  right  to  take  up  cudgels  for  the  ab 
sent.  Keep  on  singing  Mr.  Milton's  song,  girl, 
when  I  am  gone,  God  knows  whether  to  re 
turn  or  how;  our  side  is  still  running  down 
the  brae.  Forget  the  man's  detestable  doc 
trine,  dear,  but  sing  his  song; — 

"  '  Love  Virtue;  she  alone  is  free !' " 


Early  in  that  grim  and  bitter  London 
winter  of  1643-44  Milton  received  a  note  from 
his  staunch  friend,  Lady  Margaret  Ley,  urg 
ing  him  to  spend  a  certain  evening  in  Villiers 
Street. 

"I  protest,  sir,"  wrote  the  lady,  "that  it  is 
robbery,  suicide,  and  a  crime  against  reason 
for  you,  with  those  high  gifts  with  which 
Heaven  has  seen  fit  to  endow  you,  to  spend 
tristful  days  of  unbroken  drudgery  in  that 


"^   WORLD   OF  DISESTEEM"  223 

silent  house  of  yours.  Why  lie  close  in  hiding, 
as  if  you  scorned  all  us  lesser  spirits?  Your 
friends,  nay,  all  who  have  ever  met  you, 
clamour  for  your  return  and  I  herewith  lay 
my  commands  upon  you  for  to-morrow 
evening. 

"Fearing  lest  all  my  persuasions  will  not 
avail  to  draw  you  from  your  monastic  seclu 
sion,  unless  I  hold  up  before  you  some 
stronger  magnet  than  the  desire  of  two  mid 
dle-aged  zvorthies,  such  as  the  Captain  and 
myself,  I  have  invited  to  entertain  you  that 
very  handsome  and  -witty  gentlewoman,  Mis 
tress  Delme'  Davies,  your  neighbour  in  Trinity 
Court.  It  has  been  brought  to  my  notice  that 
the  young  lady's  stepfather,  being  in  some 
awe  of  the  Westminster  Assembly,  where  you 
are  not  just  now  high  in  favour  by  reason  of 
your  recent  astounding  utterances  on  Divorce 
(which,  by  the  way,  everybody  reads,  though 
none  dare  to  applaud),  that  the  good  Doctor, 
for  this  reason,  has  asked  you  to  bide  away 
from  his  house.  The  daughter  the  more  de 
sires  speech  of  you  to  assure  you  of  her  con 
fidence,  which,  like  my  own,  is  unalterable. 


224    POET,   LAW,  AND  LADY 

"Disregard  the  wishes  of  this  charming 
creature,  my  friend,  if  you  dare!" 

This  urgency  proved  effectual,  and  through 
out  that  rigorous  season  when  Milton  dwelt 
as  he  said  "in  a  world  of  disesteem,"  he  and 
this  same  "very  handsome  and  witty  gentle 
woman"  met  frequently  at  the  house  of  Lady 
Margaret.  Together  they  played  and  sang, 
read  and  studied  Italian,  and  had  pleasant 
literary  intercourse  under  the  approving  eye 
of  their  good  and  noble  friend. 

But  while  they  met  thus  unhindered,  the 
terms  laid  down  by  Milton  himself  in  the  be 
ginning,  Were  observed  in  strictness  and  hon 
our.  They  held  themselves  hard  in  hand,  and 
only  at  long  intervals  an  irrepressible  gleam 
of  the  eye  or  thrill  of  the  voice  conveyed  the 
smouldering  fires  within. 


BOOK  IV 
THE  IMPERIAL  VOICE 


XVII 
THE  FORTUNES  OF  WAR 

<  4     A  LETTER,  sir,  for  Forest  Hill.     The 
/"^  Rebels  have   let  the   post   through 
their  lines,  after  long  delays." 

It  was  an  Oxford  sutler  who  intercepted  Mr. 
Richard  Powell  with  these  words,  as  he  rode 
out  the  east  road  on  a  morning  late  in  May 
toward  Shotover. 

The  Squire  took  the  letter,  noting  its  post 
mark,  London,  and  its  address  to  his  wife. 
Muttering  that  it  was  sure  to  be  of  no  im 
portance,  else  it  would  not  have  passed  the 
Roundhead  spies,  he  rode  slowly  on  his  way. 
The  horse  which  Mr.  Powell  rode  was  a  gaunt, 
dejected  roan,  but  not  more  gaunt  and  de 
jected  than  its  rider,  for  in  his  sunken,  flabby 
face  and  figure  it  was  difficult  to  recognize 
the  bluff  and  hearty  Royalist  gentleman  of 
two  years  earlier.  His  buff  coat,  threadbare 
and  frayed  at  the  sleeve,  hung  loosely  upon 

227 


228         The  IMPERIAL    VOICE 

him,  and  there  was  a  droop  of  his  shoulders 
which  expressed  a  weight  of  discouragement 
growing  ever  heavier. 

The  glory  had  departed  from  Oxford.    Two 
weeks  earlier  King  Charles  with  his  Artillery 
train  and  all  the  gay  Cavaliers  of  his  immedi 
ate  following  had  left  the  city,  joining  the 
main  army  under  Prince  Rupert  in  the  Mid 
lands.      Meanwhile    the    Roundheads,    under 
Cromwell,  had  marched  into  Oxfordshire  and 
laid  siege  to  the  city.    "Cromwell!"  the  King 
had   cried   in   feverish   urgency:   "Who   will 
bring  me  this  Cromwell,  alive  or  dead?"    The 
scorn  and  terror  of  the  Royalists,  Oliver,  "Old 
Noll,"    as   his    soldiers   affectionately   called 
him,  had  become  since  his  great  victory  of 
Marston   Moor,   the  idol   of   the   Roundhead 
Army,  which  found  itself  invincible  when  led 
by  him.     Could  the  King  rally  from  the  suc 
cession  of  swift  blows  this  vulgar  Rebel  had 
lately   dealt    him?      This    was   the   question 
which  Mr.   Richard  Powell  was  almost  me 
chanically  revolving  in  his  mind  as  he  turned 
in  at  his  own  gate  that  May  morning.    And  if 
not — what  next  for  a  poor  Royalist  country 


The  FORTUNES  OF  WAR     229 

gentleman,  whose  estate  had  been  shorn  bare 
for  his  King's  cause  until  the  pinch  of  poverty 
showed  itself  in  his  children's  faces? 

As  his  lean  horse  trotted  slowly  into  the 
paddock  the  Squire  looked  over  the  palings 
into  the  kitchen  garden,  seeing  his  daughter 
bending  there  to  pick  shallops  for  the  noon 
dinner.  The  season  of  daffodils  was  past,  but 
it  had  come  and  gone  this  year  unheeded. 

"Here  is  a  letter  for  your  mother,  Mary," 
called  the  Squire. 

Mary  Milton  straightened  herself,  hearing 
his  voice,  then  crossed  to  the  paling  and  took 
the  letter  from  his  hand.  A  touch  of  the 
change  which  showed  itself  in  the  father  was 
visible  in  the  daughter;  her  hair,  grown 
darker  now  and  less  carefully  tended  than  in 
her  maiden  days,  was  covered  by  a  shapeless 
cap;  her  face  had  lost  its  round  and  dimpled 
contours,  and  had  acquired  a  settled  gloom. 
Although  the  arrival  of  a  letter  was  an  almost 
unknown  event  in  these  days,  since  Oxford 
was  in  state  of  siege,  and  the  Powell  family, 
sunk  deeper  than  ever  in  their  falling  for 
tunes,  were  lost  to  sight  by  the  world  outside, 


230       The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

Mary  made  no  comment  as  she  took  this  from 
her  father's  hand.  Laying  it  on  the  rim  of 
her  basket,  which  stood  in  the  grass,  she  re 
turned  to  the  shallop  bed  and  went  on  with 
her  task. 

"No  good  from  that  quarter,"  she  murmured 
under  her  breath,  and  her  mouth  became  hard- 
set  and  sullen.  But  in  a  few  minutes  her 
mother  came  into  the  garden,  saying  she  had 
heard  of  some  letter  coming  to  her  from  Lon 
don,  and  upbraiding  Mary  for  her  delay  in  the 
delivery  of  it. 

"It  can  be  nothing  of  consequence,"  said 
Mary  curtly,  leaning  against  a  blossoming 
apple  tree  and  rubbing  the  earth-stains  from 
her  hands.  "It  is  from  St.  Martin's  Lane. 
What  should  they  be  writing  for,  who  have 
so  long  ceased  to  trouble  themselves  about 
us?" 

"You  never  can  tell,"  retorted  her  mother. 
"I  have  a  choice  to  read  my  letters,  at  least," 
and  she  broke  the  seal. 

There  was  silence  while  they  sat  side  by 
side  upon  the  garden  bench  in  the  spring 
sunshine,  as  they  had  sat  two  years  before,  on 


The   FORTUNES   OF  WAR     231 

the  eve  of  the  eventful  journey  to  London. 
For  all  her  show  of  indifference,  Mary  Milton 
watched  her  mother's  immobile  face  keenly 
as  she  read  the  letter,  and  the  changes  in  its 
expression  being  strongly  marked  and  rapid 
stirred  an  almost  insupportable  curiosity  in 
her  own  mind. 

"Well !"  she  cried  impatiently ;  "am  I  never 
to  hear  what  news  from  London?  I  should 
think,  considering  all,  it  would  be  handsomer 
if  my  Aunt  Blackborough  wrote  to  me.  Never 
a  word  since  the  news  of  that  wicked  divorce 
pamphlet  of  Mr.  Milton's!" 

"Nothing  strange  in  that,"  quoth  Dame 
Powell,  "since  you  know  our  kinswoman  has 
ever  sided  with  him  in  the  matter  of  your  leav 
ing  London." 

"Whose  doing  was  it  that  I  stayed  down 
here  beyond  my  time?"  asked  Mary,  sharply. 

Plainly  this  was  a  cause  of  war  which  her 
mother  had  learned  to  avoid  and  from  which 
she  now  took  prompt  refuge  by  reading  aloud 
from  the  sheet  in  her  hand. 

"  'Some  changes  happen  here,' "  she  read, 
"  'of  which  you  may  properly  be  informed,  as 


232        The  IMPERIAL    VOICE 

having  for  your  daughter  Mary  some  small 
concern,  or  'would  have  done  once.  I  know  not 
now  with  what  she  is  occupied,  but  have  heard 
months  since  that  she  found  some  pleasure 
still  in  Officers'  Balls  and  the  like,  as  when 
she  was  a  maid. 

"  'Mr.  John  Milton,  in  nothing  terrified  by 
the  great  stir  which  was  raised  upon  his  Di 
vorce  Doctrine,  has  gone  on  putting  forth 
other  learned  treatises,  both  upon  that  theme 
and  upon  Freedom  of  the  Press,  etc.,  etc., 
which  make  all  men  talk  of  his  mighty  intel 
lect  as  well  as  freedom  from  fear  of  the  favour 
of  man.  In  fact  all  approve  his  courage,  and 
since  his  life  is  blameless  even  to  austerity  in 
his  lonely  house  with  his  venerable  father  and 
his  scholars,  the  number  of  which  greatly  in 
creases,  men  have  ceased  to  speak  ill  of  him 
and  he  is  looked  up  to  more  even  than  for 
merly.  I  see  him  often  pass  by  the  Alders' 
Gate  on  his  way  to  go  by  water  to  West 
minster,  as  also  to  Villiers  Street.  He  fre 
quents  much  the  drawing-room  of  Lady  Mar 
garet  Ley,  where  many  Parliament  leaders,  as 
well  as  wits  and  scholars  as  of  old,  congregate 


The   FORTUNES   OF  WAR     233 

of  evenings,  and  is  deemed  the  Leading  Light 
among  them.  It  is  rumoured  that  he  will 
marry  shortly  a  daughter  of  Dr.  Davies,  who 
is  quite  the  toast  of  the  company  at  Lady 
Margaret's,  being  both  witty  and,  some  think, 
very  handsome. 

"  'This  may  be  or  may  not  be,  but  it  is  cer 
tain  Mr.  Milton  finds  the  Aldersgate  Street 
house  too  small  for  what  he  has  in  hand,  and 
has  taken  a  better  house  and  much  larger  in 
the  Barbican,  into  which  it  is  his  purpose  to 
remove  in  September,  when  all  believe  the  War 
must  be  over.  Small  doubt  but  Mr.  Milton 
will  be  elevated  to  some  high  post  in  the  new 
Government  which  men  here  foresee.' " 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Mary,  her  mother  hav 
ing  stopped  reading. 

"All,  and  enough,  is  it  not?  There  is  some 
thing  there  to  think  of,  for  you  at  least.  What 
will  your  position  be  if  Mr.  Milton  marries?" 

"How  can  he  marry?"  cried  Mary,  trem 
bling  with  excitement,  "seeing  he  has  a  wife 
living.  What  sort  can  that  girl  be  who 
would  let  him  make  her  his  light  o'  love  openly 
like  that!" 


"Davies,"  repeated  her  mother,  referring  to 
the  letter ;  "  'a  daughter  of  Dr.  Davies.' 
Surely  I  have  heard  that  name  before.  Did 
we  meet  any  of  that  name  in  London?" 

"Have  you  forgot,  then?"  cried  Mary.  "Of 
course  you  met  her  in  Aldersgate  Street, — 
this  very  girl.  Oh,  you  must  remember  her, — 
a  tall,  lean,  foreign-spoken  hussy,  doing  les 
sons  with  the  lads  to  get  liberty,  even  then, 
for  her  coquetries  with  Mr.  Milton,  and  up 
to  more  deviltry  and  pranks  than  any  decent 
girl  would  dare  to  think  of." 

"What!  she  is  not  the  hoyden  who  put  on 
men's  clothes  that  day  we  were  at  Mr.  Milton's 
and  made  a  fool  of  you?" 

"Yes,  that  very  same." 

"It  looks  as  if  she  was  likely  to  make  a  fool 
of  you  again,  then." 

"But  'tis  impossible  she  can  marry  him — 
he  is  my  husband." 

"I'm  not  so  sure,  Mary,  not  after  two  years' 
absence  of  your  own  choosing.  No  one  knows 
what  loose  laws  those  Rebels  will  make  to  fit 
themselves  if  they  do  get  the  reins  in  their 
hands.  And  here  is  that  man  Cromwell  rout- 


The  FORTUNES  OF  WAR    235 

ing  and  slaughtering  our  men  everywhere,  and 
camped  now  at  our  very  doors.  For  my  part 
I  don't  know  what  will  come  next.  It  looks 
as  if  we  should  be  sleeping  under  the  hedges 
in  a  few  months  more,"  and  Dame  Powell's 
anxious  face  witnessed  to  the  sincerity  of  her 
fears. 

"And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  mother," 
cried  Mary  bitterly,  "I  might  have  had  a  home 
of  my  own,  and  a  shelter  for  you  and  my 
father!  I  might  be  this  minute  an  honourable 
wife,  caring  for  my  husband's  house  and  even 
nursing  a  child  of  my  own  instead  of  moping 
here,  a  country  trollop,  neither  maid,  wife,  nor 
widow !"  and  she  burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears. 

Keproach  and  recrimination  had  been  com 
mon  enough  between  these  two,  but  something 
in  the  piercing  reality  of  this  complaint 
struck  home  to  Dame  Powell's  not  over-sensi 
tive  conscience.  She  patted  Mary's  bowed 
head  soothingly  with  her  large,  competent 
hand  and  said: 

"There,  there,  poor  child,  mother  will  try  to 
manage  a  way  out  somehow.  It  may  not  be 
too  late  yet." 


XVIII 

CHALLENGED 

ON  June  the  fourteenth,  1645,  was  fought 
the  battle  of  Naseby,  in  which  the 
King  lost  all  and  the  Civil  War  was  virtu 
ally  ended.  Charles  fled,  a  fugitive,  to  the 
Welsh  Marshes,  leaving  everything,  even  his 
private  papers  with  full  betrayal  of  his  per 
fidy,  to  the  conqueror's  hands.  The  conqueror 
was  Oliver  Cromwell. 

London  was  mad  with  fiery  triumph,  Bow 
Bells  and  a  score  of  others  ringing  out  their 
exultation.  After  sundry  days  of  public  re 
joicing  and  blazing  bonfires,  sober  citizens 
turned  to  face  the  serious  tasks  before  them. 

In  his  study  in  the  Aldersgate  Street  house, 
on  the  fourth  day  after  Naseby,  John  Milton 
stood  in  the  open  window  overlooking  the  gar 
den,  a  sheet  of  manuscript  in  his  hand.  From 
his  face  all  scars  of  his  own  long  spiritual 
battle  seemed  to  have  faded ;  it  wore  that  day 

236 


CHALLENGED  237 

undimmed  the  noble  beauty  of  his  younger 
manhood,  and  the  light  of  a  conqueror's  joy. 
A  King  had  come  to  his  own,  though  not  the 
Stuart  King.  For  Milton  had  beaten  down 
the  assaults  of  slander  and  detraction,  and 
weathered  through  the  storm  of  denunciation 
from  pulpit  and  pen.  To-day  he  stood  un 
scathed  in  the  eyes  of  his  fellows  and  assoiled 
from  all  suspicion  by  the  voice  of  his  peers. 
The  Puritan  conscience  did  not  endorse  offi 
cially  his  daring  doctrine  of  divorce,  as  he  had 
hoped,  but  the  Puritan  party  said,  the  man 
has  a  right  to  the  freedom  of  his  own  opinion. 
Sundry  Puritans  even  murmured  that  Milton 
was  great  enough  to  be  a  law  unto  himself, 
and  was  justified  in  his  position  so  far  as  con 
cerned  his  own  case.  He  knew  to-day  that  his 
countrymen  trusted  him,  and  that  in  the  new 
organization  of  government  wrhich  must  fol 
low  the  close  of  war  they  would  demand  his 
public  service.  And  he  would  give  it,  though 
at  the  cost  of  still  putting  by  that  cherished 
purpose  of  producing  a  great  poem,  which 
"men  would  not  willingly  let  die."  He  could 
wait.  Meanwhile,  should  he  be  frustrate  of 


238        The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

his  hope  to  be  himself  a  true  poem?  This,  the 
most  vital  question  of  life  to  Milton,  was  now 
upon  him. 

The  sheet  in  his  hand  contained  a  sonnet, 
written  the  night  before,  and  this  morning 
copied.  The  opening  lines  were: 

"Lady,  that  in  the  prime  of  earliest  youth 
Wisely  hast  shunned  the  broad  way  and  the  green." 

Milton  read  the  sonnet  carefully  through 
to  the  closing  words :  "Virgin  wise  and  pure" 
and  smiled  as  he  read  with  happy  tenderness. 
Then  he  folded  and  sealed  the  sheet  and  ad 
dressed  it  to  Mistress  Delme'  Davies,  Trinity 
Court;  next  called  Hubert  and  despatched 
him  to  deliver  the  letter  to  the  lady. 

Alone  again,  Milton  sat  down  at  his  desk 
and  gave  himself  to  close  thought  in  which 
past  and  future  mingled  with  the  thrilling 
present.  For  to-day,  if  ever,  the  time  had 
come  for  the  last  telling  blow.  His  house, 
cheerless,  servant-ruled,  needed  above  all 
things  the  gracious  refining  touch  of  a 
woman's  presence — not  such  a  woman  as  had 
eat  moping  stupidly  here  for  those  brief  weeks 
of  the  summer  of  two  years  ago,  but  a  being 


CHALLENGED  239 

of  courage  and  joy,  of  mind  and  will  mated 
in  purpose  to  his  own.  Delme' !  He  could  see 
her  in  her  old  place,  his  bright  particular  star 
among  his  scholars,  brighter  than  they  all, 
bolder  too  to  speak  her  thoughts,  more  fearless 
to  follow  her  own  untamed  will,  yet  with  a 
bent  for  submission  when  needful.  He  saw 
her  on  that  spring  day  when  he  had  let  loose 
upon  her  his  angry  censure  for  her  bold  mock 
ery  of  his  guest  from  Oxfordshire;  how 
bravely  yet  meekly  she  had  borne  his  chastise 
ment  ;  how,  at  last,  she  had  full-faced  him,  her 
master,  with  a  haughtiness  matching  his,  de 
claring  she  counted  herself  not  inferior  to  his 
guest,  but  as  true  woman,  yes,  truer. 

Milton  groaned  at  the  thought  of  the  agony 
which  might  have  been  forborne  if  deeper  in 
sight  had  been  granted  him  that  day, — if  he 
could  have  seen  in  the  child  Delme'  the  woman 
that  should  be,  and  in  the  blooming  maiden 
whose  distress  had  appealed  so  strongly  to  his 
chivalry,  the  "mute,  spiritless  mate,"  the 
"image  of  earth"  the  faithless,  heartless 
traitor  to  bed  and  board  that  Mary  Powell 
was  to  prove  herself. 


240        The  IMPERIAL  VOICE 

His  eyes  grew  dim  with  the  poignant  reflec 
tion;  he  passed  his  hand  over  them  again  and 
again,  and  still  all  objects  in  the  room  re 
mained  clouded  to  his  vision.  Impatiently  he 
rose  and  paced  the  floor.  To-night  at  Lady 
Margaret  Ley's  the  London  leaders  of  the  day 
were  to  be  gathered  in  a  brilliant  assembly, 
celebrating  the  victory  of  their  cause.  Delme' 
would  be  there,  well  he  knew.  Lady  Margaret 
depended  on  the  girl's  beauty  and  wit  in  all 
her  gatherings,  and  moreover,  had  conceived 
for  her  an  ardent,  almost  a  mother's  affection. 
Sometime  during  the  evening  Delme'  must 
grant  him  a  moment  alone,  must  bear  to  hear 
him  say  that  the  time  long  delayed  was  at 
hand  when  she  must  brave  all  and  follow  him. 
Was  he  justified  in  asking  of  her  the  de 
fiance  of  conventional  standards?  Could  he 
preserve  intact  his  own  ideal  of  perfect 
rectitude  in  such  a  marriage?  Could  his 
theory  of  divorce  stand  the  strain  of  his  own 
very  deed? 

Gradually  the  mist  cleared  from  before  his 
eyes.  Again,  as  often  before,  he  brought  to 
bear  his  chain  of  logic ;  by  the  utter  unfitness 


CHALLENGED  241 

and  the  long  obstinate  desertion  of  his  wife  he 
was  furnished  with  adequate  ground  for  di 
vorce  de  facto;  and  by  the  countenance  of  cer 
tain  passages  of  Holy  Scripture  he  was  re 
leased  from  the  marriage  bond  de  jure.  The 
marriage  with  Mary  Powell  should  be  pub 
licly  and  fearlessly  annulled;  the  marriage 
with  Delme'  as  openly  entered  into. 

"I  am  justified !"  he  cried  aloud.  "Let  mine 
be  the  test  case  for  my  theory.  I  shall  do  my 
darling  no  wrong  in  the  sight  of  God  when  I 
bring  her  home  my  wife,  and  to  the  cavil  of 
men  God  has  made  us  both  indifferent  by  long 
discipline." 

There  was  a  thunder  of  horse's  hoofs  down 
the  street  outside  an  hour  later.  Milton  stood 
to  listen.  Hubert  had  returned  from  Trinity 
Court;  he  heard  his  voice  and  another  which 
rang  with  imperious  sharpness,  a  voice  which 
he  did  not  recognize.  In  a  moment  the  study 
door  was  opened  by  Hubert,  who  announced : 

"Major  Unwin." 

Prosper  entered,  in  tarnished  uniform,  the 
battle-stains  of  Naseby  still  grim  upon  his 
face,  a  cloud — was  it  of  war? — in  his  eyes. 


242        The  IMPERIAL    VOICE 

Milton  held  out  his  hand  with  a  word  of  eager 
welcome. 

"You  come  from  Northamptonshire,  from 
Lieutenant-General  Cromwell?"  he  cried. 
"The  smell  of  battle  is  yet  on  your  garments." 

"Yes,"  Prosper  answered,  with  astounding 
curtness,  not  giving  his  hand.  "There  is  pub 
lic  war  and  there  is  also  private  war,  Mr.  Mil 
ton.  I  have  heard  that  said  in  my  soldier's 
tent  by  one  who  knows,  which  has  brought  me 
riding  hard  from  Rugby  hither." 

"And  what  is  it  you  have  heard?"  demanded 
Milton  haughtily,  the  aristocrat  in  him 
swiftly  to  the  fore. 

"That  you  have  a  purpose  of  dishonour  to  a 
kinswoman  of  mine,"  replied  Prosper  hotly. 
"I  am  here  to  defend  my  cousin,  Mistress 
Delme'  Davies,  from  the  infamy  of  that  intrigue 
into  which  men  say  you  seek  to  bring  her." 

Milton's  lips  curled  in  a  coldly  scornful 
smile ;  nevertheless,  Prosper's  words  cut  to  the 
heart. 

"Can  you  answer?"  cried  the  soldier.  "Can 
you  deny  that  such  is  your  purpose?" 

"It  is  not  my  habit  to  quarrel  with  my  de- 


CHALLENGED  243 

famers,  nor  to  explain  my  purposes  to  those 
incapable  of  understanding  them." 

"Then,  sir,"  said  Prosper,  forcing  his  voice 
to  calmness,  "I  demand  of  you  the  satisfaction 
of  a  gentleman."  Adding  drily,  "In  this  I  take 
no  advantage,  though  a  soldier  and  you 
civilian,  since  your  skill  in  swordsmanship  is 
acknowledged." 

Milton  bowed  ceremoniously. 

"I  am  glad  that  one  excellence  is  left  me 
in  your  eyes,  Major  Unwin.  Yes,  I  can  use 
my  sword  if  you  insist." 

"I  do." 

"Will  you  be  seated?"  Milton  himself  took 
a  chair  as  he  spoke. 

"Not  in  your  presence,  sir,"  said  Prosper 
stiffly,  and  stood,  harshly  repellent,  breathing 
all  the  prose  of  battle,  not  its  poetry,  in  the 
fierceness  of  his  mood.  Milton  smiled,  sud 
denly  conscious  how  very  much  older  he  was 
in  years  and  in  something  beyond  years  than 
the  hot-blooded  soldier. 

"We  might  fight,  Prosper,"  he  said,  after  a 
prolonged  pause,  lifting  his  head  and  showing 
no  agitation  but  a  touch  of  whimsical  irony 


244       The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

on  his  face;  "beyond  doubt  one  of  us  is  handy 
enough  with  the  sword  to  kill  the  other,  but 
does  it  occur  to  you  that  it  wrould  be  a  little 
extravagant,  at  just  this  crisis  of  affairs?" 

Prosper  stared  at  him  without  reply. 

"Without  overweening  conceit  of  our 
selves,"  continued  Milton  gravely,  "we  may 
acknowledge  that  each  of  us,  in  war  or  in 
counsel,  has  a  certain  value  at  this  hour  to 
England.  Briefly,  we  are  needed." 

"Then  you  refuse  my  challenge?" 

"Looking  at  the  situation  largely,  Major 
Unwin,  I  can  do  no  other.  Believe  me,  I 
have  never  cherished  purposes  of  infamy  or 
intrigue  toward  any  woman,  but  have  re 
mained  unblemished  throughout  my  life,  keep 
ing  myself  pure  in  mind  as  well  as  deed."  The 
words  came  curtly. 

"That  I  believe,  sir,"  said  Prosper,  his  rev 
erence  for  Milton's  lofty  purity  suddenly  as 
serting  itself. 

"As  concerns  your  kinswoman,  trust  me,  her 
fair  fame  is  as  safe  in  my  hands  as  in  your 
own.  Allow  me  to  say  to  you,  as  I  have  to 
others,  that  in  the  past  brave  men  and  worthy 


CHALLENGED  245 

patriots  dear  to  God  and  famous  to  all  ages, 
have  dared  to  show  themselves  above  an  op 
pressive  law.  Where  a  law  is  a  perversion  of 
instinct  and  reason,  it  rests  with  those  who 
dare  to  lift  the  ensign  of  a  greater  law." 

"Then  you  do  not  deny,  sir,  that  you  pur 
pose  what  you  call  marriage  with  my  cousin?" 

Milton  saw  suddenly  through  the  rugged 
offence  and  menace  of  Prosper's  words  and 
bearing  the  agony  of  his  jealous,  thwarted  pas 
sion  for  Delme',  and  his  heart  softened  towards 
him.  Rising,  he  held  out  his  hand ;  then,  since 
it  was  not  taken,  laid  it  with  strange  subdu 
ing  touch  on  Prosper's  shoulder. 

"Forgive  me,  old  friend,"  he  said,  writh  pecu 
liar  gentleness,  "if  I  give  you  pain,  yet  trust 
nae  to  pursue  no  selfish  purpose  towards  her 
we  both  reverence.  Delme',  and  she  alone,  can 
shape  her  future;  you  and  I  can  rely  upon 
her  invincible  innocence  to  take  no  false 
step." 

Looking  straight  into  Milton's  face  as  he 
said  these  words,  Prosper's  own  eyes  grew 
dim,  and  the  long  habit  of  awe  of  this  man 
came  again  upon  him. 


246        The  IMPERIAL    VOICE 

"I  am  only  a  rough  soldier,"  he  said,  and 
his  voice  faltered ;  "perhaps  these  nice  distinc 
tions  and  theories  are  overflne  for  me  to  un 
derstand,  who  am  taught  to  obey  orders  at 
whatever  cost.  But  we  will  not  fight,  Mr.  Mil 
ton;  you  are  right,  it  were  foolish  waste  of 
life  just  now  to  die  for  aught  but  country. 
.  .  .  But.  .  .  .  Delme'  is  very  dear.  .  .  ." 

With  these  hard-wrung  words  the  major 
broke  away  and  left  the  room  and  the  house  no 
less  precipitately  than  he  had  entered. 

As  he  galloped  into  the  city  by  the  Alders' 
Gate,  Prosper  met  a  mounted  servant  hold 
ing  a  led  horse  by  the  bridle,  coming  slowly 
down  St.  Martin's-le-Grand  Lane  to  the  Bull 
Tavern.  Despite  strong  preoccupation,  Pros 
per  noted  as  he  passed  that  man  and  horse  ap 
peared  jaded  with  long  travel  and  that  the  led 
horse,  a  decrepit  roan,  looked  as  if  it  might 
fall  to  the  ground  for  exhaustion. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone,  Milton  received 
from  Hubert  a  note  from  Delme'  in  token  of 
having  his  sonnet.  It  was  but  a  single  line: 
"To-night,  at  Lady  Margaret's,  I  will  let  you 
know  how  proud  I  am  and  grateful."  He  read 


CHALLENGED  247 

and  reread  the  words  with  a  lover's  fondness, 
yet  found  them  powerless  to  exorcise  the  de 
mons  of  doubt  and  dread  which  Prosper's  visit 
had  called  up.  That  for  his  sake  Delinks 
name  could  be  lightly  spoken  in  Cromwell's 
camp  bruised  his  very  heart,  while  the  stern 
honesty  of  Prosper's  challenge  could  not  be 
doubted,  however  he  might  reason  away  the 
cause.  All  in  all,  the  encounter  had  left  him 
with  a  soreness  and  heaviness  of  spirit  which 
he  was  unable  to  shake  off  throughout  the 
day. 

The  hour  for  the  supper  party  at  Lady  Mar 
garet's  that  evening  was  seven.  It  was  Mil 
ton's  practice  to  go  for  a  walk  with  his  father 
daily  at  five.  The  day  was  sultry,  with  some 
mutterings  of  thunder,  but  they  went  out  as 
usual.  On  the  way  home  they  were  overtaken, 
as  if  by  accident,  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard 
by  their  neighbour,  Mr.  Blackborough,  who, 
walking  on  in  their  company,  observed  that 
the  old  man  seemed  feeble  as  if  depressed  by 
the  sultry  air,  so  urged  them  to  rest  a  little  in 
his  house  in  St.  Martin's  Lane.  Perceiving 
that  the  suggestion  was  welcome  to  his  father, 


248        The  IMPERIAL    VOICE 

Milton,  who  had  been  silent  and  abstracted 
throughout  the  walk,  accepted  it  and  they 
entered  the  narrow  dining-room  of  the  house, 
on  a  level  with  the  street. 

Mr.  Blackborough  left  them  to  bring  wine 
and  Milton  was  presently  aware  of  some  rus 
tle  as  of  women's  garments  on  the  stairs, 
with  loud  and  urgent  whispering  of  Dame 
Blackborough  and  footsteps  to  and  fro 
above. 

Impatient  of  the  delay  and  the  small,  busy 
maneuvers  of  the  worthy  but  to  him  weari 
some  Blackboroughs,  Milton  walked  to  the 
window  and  stood  tapping  on  the  sash,  watch 
ing  the  thunder  clouds  gathering  in  the  south 
ern  sky.  A  voice  behind  him  spoke  his  name. 
Turning  he  saw  his  host,  a  tray  in  his  hand 
with  wine  glasses  which  rattled  noisily.  The 
man  spoke  with  curious  constraint  and  seemed 
unable  to  look  squarely  in  his  face,  as  he 
said: 

"The  good  wife  is  above  in  her  parlour,  Mr. 
Milton,  and  sends  word  to  ask  that  if  it  tax 
not  your  time  overmuch,  you  will  go  up  and 
speak  with  her  for  a  moment." 


CHALLENGED  249 

Vexed  at  the  renewed  detention,  and 
haunted  by  a  sense  of  vague  uneasiness,  Mil 
ton  looked  at  the  clock  and  found  it  then 
past  six. 

"I  am  somewhat  in  haste,  truly,"  he  said, 
moving  quickly  to  the  door,  "yet  would  I  not 
fail  in  obliging  Mistress  Blackborough  if  she 
requires  anything  of  nae." 

As  he  left  the  room  Milton  noticed  that 
Blackborough  let  his  tray  fairly  fall  upon  the 
table,  as  if  his  hand  were  too  unsteady  to 
hold  it,  and  that  he  watched  his  movements 
with  restless  and  mysterious  anxiety. 

The  door  of  the  prim,  close  parlour  above 
stood  open.  Milton  entered  unannounced,  op 
pressed  with  a  weight  of  painful  memories. 
The  room  was  dark  by  reason  of  the  gathering 
storm  without,  and  for  an  instant  he  thought 
it  empty.  As  he  advanced,  some  one  stirred 
from  the  shadow  of  a  tall  escritoire  and  he 
saw  a  woman,  piteous,  pallid,  and  trembling, 
who  took  a  step  forward,  then  stopped,  clasp 
ing  her  hands  tragically.  Changed  though  she 
was,  Milton  recognized  Mary  Powell  in 
stantly.  He  even  felt  in  a  benumbed  half-con- 


250        The  IMPERIAL    VOICE 

sciousness  that  this  was  what  he  had  known 
all  day  must  happen ;  some  hideous  familiarity 
seemed  to  cling  to  all  the  scene. 

Mary  gathered  strength  to  come  nearer,  and 
throwing  herself  on  the  floor  at  his  feet 
in  utter  self-abasement,  faltered  forth  one 
word — 

"Your  wife!" 

With  dull  distaste  and  a  sinking  sense 
as  of  physical  repugnance  Milton  shrank 
back  involuntarily  from  her  touch,  saying 
sternly : 

"My  wife?  Not  wife,  but  traitor !  You  may 
not  come  neap  me." 

"Your  forgiveness,"  she  wailed;  "oh,  for 
give  me  if  you  can!  I  know  I  am  unworthy 
of  it.  I  deserve  nothing  of  you  but  hatred 
and  contempt.  You  may  cast  me  out  if  you 
will,  condemn  me  if  you  will,  for  no  one  will 
blame  you  but  only  me.  But,  oh,  Mr.  Milton, 
remember  before  you  turn  me  away  how  young 
I  was  when  I  left  your  house,  how  little  it  was 
my  intent  to  desert  or  distress  you!  It  was 
my  mother  was  chief  promoter  of  my  fro- 
wardness  and  worked  upon  me  to  bide  at 


CHALLENGED  251 

home,  for  she  would  have  it  the  war  was  soon 
to  be  over  and  all  who  took  sides  against  his 
Majesty  would  come  under  condemnation  and 
punishment,  which  did  affright  me.  My  poor 
father,  too,  had  missed  me  sore.  He  begged 
me  not  to  leave  him  again,  and  I  was  the  only 
one  of  the  children  who  could  cheer  him  when 
he  got  low  in  his  mind.  It  did  seem,  sir,  he 
needed  me." 

"I  beg  of  you  to  rise,"  said  Milton ;  "I  can 
not  see  you — see  a  woman,  at  my  feet.  It 
must  not  be." 

By  a  strong  self-compulsion  he  took  her  hand 
and  raised  her.  She  stood  before  him,  her 
face  pallid  and  tensely  strained,  but  for 
once  in  her  life  the  girl  was  too  frightened 
for  tears.  With  downcast  eyes  which  she 
dared  not  lift  to  his  face  she  went  on  to  plead 
her  cause  in  incoherent  and  yet  not  unconvinc 
ing  terms.  She  was  by  no  means  destitute  of 
shrewdness  and  calculation,  and  at  this  des 
perate  turn  of  her  own  and  her  family  fortune 
she  found  herself  fired  to  sudden  courage  by 
the  elemental  passions  of  remorse,  fear,  and 
jealousy.  No  word  from  her  husband  came 


252        The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

to  help  or  hinder.  He  now  stood  as  if  in  a 
dream  from  which  some  merciful  voice  must 
speedily  awaken  him. 

"It  is  not  that  I  ever  had  cause  of  com 
plaint,  sir,"  stammered  Mary,  "for  no  woman 
had  ever  better  or  gentler  husband.  It  was 
only  my  being  simple  and  a  country  girl  and 
stupid-like  with  changing  all  my  ways  that 
made  me  so  misbehave,  and  be  that  burden 
some  I  was  to  you.  I  was  never  untrue  to 
you,  Mr.  Milton,  in  word  or  thought  as  some 
have  said,  and  that  you  may  not  believe  of 
me.  I  lived  with  you  but  few  weeks,  but  long 
enough  to  learn  what  virtue  was,  and  with  all 
my  folly  I  have  kept  my  faith  and  honour 
as  your  wife.  Many's  the  night  I  have  cried 
myself  to  sleep,  or  lain  broad  awake  till  morn 
ing,  wishing  myself  back  to  show  you  I  could 
do  better  and  keep  a  house  in  comfort  and 
cheer  for  my  master,  though  I  might  never  be 
so  great  at  my  books  as  some  others.  Then 
I  would  tease  my  mother  to  let  me  return,  but 
always  she  would  put  me  off  and  say  'twere 
time  enough  when  the  war  was  over  and 
chance  for  settled  life;  the  less  a  man  had  to 


CHALLENGED  253 

worry  about  in  such  troublous  times  the  better, 
and  no  doubt  you  thought  yourself  lucky  to 
have  no  charge  of  wife  and  child  in  those  days 
when  none  knew  whether  King  or  Commons 
would  prevail. 

"But  'twas  no  excuse  for  me,  and  there  is 
none,  Mr.  Milton,  but  I  have  suffered  too  and 
more  than  can  ever  be  known,  till  I  am  sick 
in  body  through  and  through  and  my  heart 
broken  with  shame  and  sorrow.  And  since 
two  weeks  now  we  have  been  forced  to  give 
over  the  house  at  Forest  Hill  to  the  Round 
heads,  and  we  all  that  used  to  be  so  careless 
and  light-hearted  there  are  turned  out  upon 
the  world  to  find  shelter  where  we  may,  and 
my  mother  not  so  strong  as  she  once  was,  and 
my  dear  father  fallen  away  beyond  belief  with 
his  troubles.  So  I  said  to  them,  'After  all  I 
have  one  to  turn  to,  though  shamefully  I've 
treated  him,  but  he  is  a  God-fearing  and  a 
just  man  and  knows  how  to  forgive  as  he  prays 
to  be  forgiven.  I  will  rise,'  I  said  to  them, 
'and  go  to  my  husband,  and  confess  my  wrong 
and  plead  with  him  to  take  me  back,  not  as 
wife,  but  as  servant,  for  well  I  know  I  deserve 


254        The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

no  better  place."  Here  Mary's  voice  faltered 
and  failed  her  and  once  more  she  threw  herself 
at  her  husband's  feet,  now  at  last  in  a  torrent 
of  tears. 

This  time  he  did  not  try  to  raise  her,  seemed 
not  indeed  to  see  her,  but  turned  away  and 
walked  to  the  window  in  silence.  At  the  mo 
ment  the  thunder,  which  had  been  growing 
nearer  during  the  interview,  broke  with  a  fierce 
and  deafening  crash.  As  if  it  had  been  a  sum 
mons  Milton  turned  again  and  crossed  the 
room  to  the  door.  Looking  back  at  the  cower 
ing  woman's  form  with  head  bent  upon  a  chair 
and  face  covered,  he  said  in  a  voice  from  which 
all  tone  had  fled  and  which  possessed  neither 
softness  nor  yet  severity : 

"I  will  return  and  speak  further  of 
this." 

So  saying  he  descended  to  the  room  below 
where  Dame  Blackborough  sat  with  the  others, 
and  asked  his  father  to  set  out  at  once  for 
their  own  house.  A  strange  tensity  pervaded 
the  place,  for  no  word  was  spoken  save  this 
one,  and  all  faces  bore  the  stamp  of  acute  sus 
pense.  The  two  men  wrent  out  in  silence  into 


CHALLENGED  255 

the  storm.  Blackborough,  watching  from  the 
window,  observed  that  this  time  it  was  the 
son  who  leaned  upon  his  father's  arm  as  they 
walked  slowly  down  the  lane  and  disappeared 
in  the  great  arch  of  the  Alders'  Gate. 


XIX 

BROKEN  MUSIC 

IN  a  stately  hall  in  the  Villiers  Street  resi 
dence  of  Lady  Margaret  Ley,  a  notable 
company  was  gathered  that  night.  The  rain, 
which  had  held  off  until  after  seven,  now 
poured  in  torrents  and  beat  noisily  by  fits 
upon  the  wTindow-panes,  swept  by  sudden 
gusts  of  wind.  But  amid  the  splendid  festivi 
ties  of  the  banquet  the  storm  passed  unheeded  ; 
the  cloth  was  drawn  and  speech  and  toast 
were  begun. 

Lady  Margaret  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
seated  at  the  right  of  her  soldier  husband,  her 
self  presided  over  the  toasts  with  character 
istic  fire,  wit,  and  ingenuity.  Superb  in  court 
costume  of  black  velvet  and  diamonds  the 
lady  looked  a  queen,  and  in  her  commanding 
presence  and  personality  she  dominated  the 
scene  in  queenly  wise,  in  herself  seeming  to 

256 


BROKEN  MUSIC  257 

embody  the  triumphant  enthusiasm  of  the 
hour. 

Her  ladyship  called  first  upon  Lord  Howard 
and  Denzil  Holies,  who  in  turn  toasted 
Essex  and  Lord  Fairfax.  Lieutenant-General 
Cromwell  was  the  next  toast,  given  with  a 
burst  of  impetuous  ardour  by  Sir  Harry  Vane. 

Among  the  bevy  of  women  who  looked  and 
listened  with  sympathetic  response  Delme' 
Davies  was  noticeable  for  her  distinction  of 
person,  manners,  and  wit.  She  wore  a  flowing 
dress  of  white  taffeta,  sprinkled  with  rosebuds 
over  a  satin  petticoat  of  a  delicate  rose  colour. 
At  her  wrists  were  deep  cuffs  and  at  the  neck 
a  wide  falling  collar  of  fine  old  Flemish  lace, 
heirlooms  in  her  family;  above  the  collar 
a  necklace  of  filigree  gilt  encircled  the  firm 
young  throat;  the  gold  lights  in  her  eyes 
seemed  fairly  to  scintillate,  and  the  vivid  red 
of  lips  and  cheeks  gave  token  of  the  excitement 
of  her  Gallic  temperament  in  this  hour  of  vic 
tory  for  the  cause  she  loved. 

As  Sir  Harry  Vane  resumed  his  seat,  Lady 
Margaret,  placing  her  hand  upon  a  vacant 
chair  at  her  right,  leaned  forward  to  speak  to 


258        The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

a  clergyman,  Dr.  Edmund  Calamy,  Delinks 
vis-a-vis,  at  some  distance  down  the  table. 

"Dr.  Calamy,"  she  said,  "I  shall  now  ask 
you  to  speak  on  the  theme,  'Law  and  Liberty,' 
although  I  tell  you,  sir,  plainly,  I  had  ex 
pected  another  to  discourse  upon  it.  My 
friend,  Mr.  John  Milton,  who  should  be  here 
at  my  right  hand,  has  not  appeared  among 
us,  nor  have  we  received  explanation  of  his 
absence.  Were  he  here,  I  should  have  given  to 
him  a  task  so  congenial.  In  Mr.  Milton's  ab 
sence  all  will  hear  gladly  from  one  who  has 
suffered  many  things  for  liberty  and  who  de 
voutly  reverences  law." 

Dr.  Calamy  arose,  all  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 
Bowing  to  Lady  Margaret,  with  a  few  words 
of  apology  and  deprecation,  he  continued 
speaking,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  as  follows : 

"I  ask  your  forbearance  if  instead  of  speak 
ing  of  the  subject  intended  for  Mr.  John  Mil 
ton,  I  take  advantage  of  that  gentleman's  ab 
sence  to  speak  of  John  Milton  himself.  Our 
great  military  leaders  have  been  exalted,  but 
a  word  remains  to  be  said  of  the  man  whose 
genius  gives  lustre  to  our  Puritan  cause,  and 


BROKEN  MUSIC  259 

whose  free,  unfettered  spirit  soars  ever  aloft 
above  all  party  factions  or  personal  issues. 
Lady  Margaret,  may  I  wrest  from  their  origi 
nal  application  and  intent  Milton's  owTn  words 
and  say,  as  I  contemplate  this  man :  'Methinks 
I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nature 
rousing  itself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep 
.  .  .  shaking  invincible  locks  and  kindling  un- 
dazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam !' ' 

Calamy  was  interrupted  by  an  outbreak  of 
rapturous  cheering  at  this  unexpected  turn 
and  application  of  Milton's  recent  utterance 
on  the  freedom  of  the  press,  already  famous 
and  familiar  in  that  company.  With  ever 
growing  vigour  he  went  on,  closing  with  these 
words : 

"Your  Ladyship,  fellow-patriots:  Coming 
centuries  shall  judge  better  than  we  the  man 
who  has  put  away  silently  and  without  com 
plaint  his  most  cherished  purpose,  the  one  to 
which  from  his  youth  he  was  self-dedicated, — 
the  composition  of  a  great  epic  poem, — the 
first  in  the  English  language, — that  he  might 
give  himself  heart,  soul,  and  pen  to  British 
liberties.  For  liberty  he  has  lived  and  writ- 


260        The  IMPERIAL    VOICE 

ten.  He  has  espoused  with  ardour  the  cause 
which  he  believed  just  and  followed  it  wher 
ever  it  led  him.  Some  of  us  may  not  agree 
with  his  every  conclusion,  but  none  of  us 
doubts  his  high,  untainted  purpose.  He  has 
lived  down  detraction  and  risen  above 
calumny.  If  a  partisan  we  can  at  least,  as  we 
think  of  the  man's  purity,  his  flaming  genius, 
his  resistless  eloquence  like  to  a  trumpet  blast, 
call  John  Milton  the  Seraphic  Partisan." 

As  the  applause  which  greeted  Calamy's 
conclusion  subsided,  Lady  Margaret  arose 
and,  with  a  half-quizzical  smile,  said: 

"In  spite  of  the  devotion  to  polemics  of  him 
whom  the  speaker  styles  the  'Seraphic  Par 
tisan'  and  his  habit  to  'scorn  delights  and  live 
laborious  days,'  it  is  my  pleasure  to  prove  that 
Mr.  Milton  still  courts  his  earlier  Muse  on  oc 
casion  and  even  in  these  last  days  has  hon 
oured  me,  his  old  friend,  with  his  genius.  Sir 
Harry  Vane  holds  a  copy  of  a  sonnet  which 
Mr.  Milton  not  very  long  ago  addressed  to 
my  humble  self." 

Sir  Harry  responded  with  reading  the  son 
net,  beginning : 


BROKEN  MUSIC  261 

"  Daughter  to  that  good  Earl  once  President." 

which  was  received  with  high  delight.  But 
all  the  while,  in  the  bosom  of  her  gown, 
Delme'  Davies  carried  a  folded  paper,  on  which 
in  Milton's  writing  was  another  sonnet,  sent 
to  her  that  morning,  of  the  existence  of  which 
they  two  alone  knew.  Troubled  though  she 
was  by  his  unexplained  absence,  this  amulet 
on  her  breast  gave  to  Delme'  with  each  breath 
she  drew  a  sense  of  proud  possession,  an  assur 
ance  of  Milton's  long-controlled  and  reverent 
love  and  of  his  imminent  purpose. 

All  now  rose  from  table  and  streamed  into 
the  drawing-room.  Here  one  of  the  company 
seated  at  the  harpsichord  struck  the  keys, 
and  with  one  consent  they  joined  voices  in 
Cromwell's  stern  and  solemn  war  psalm: 
"Let  God  arise;  let  His  enemies  be  scat 
tered."  Lighter  music  followed,  and  pres 
ently  Lady  Margaret,  drawing  Delme'  forward, 
cried : 

"Any  one  who  looks  as  Mistress  Delme'  does 
to-night  must  have  within  her  power  to  sing 
like  angels." 

Warm  response  greeted  this  suggestion,  and 


262        The  IMPERIAL    VOICE 

Lady  Margaret's  hand  ran  over  the  keys  as  if 
uncertain  which  way  to  stray. 

"Ah,  Delme', "  she  cried  in  another  moment, 
"you  shall  sing  Mr.  Milton's  own  sweetest 
song — that  closing  song  from  the  Masque  pre 
sented  at  Ludlow  Castle.  Nothing  do  you  sing 
lovelier.  Is  this  the  accompaniment  you 
prefer?" 

With  deepening  colour  but  without  reluct 
ance  Delme'  moved  to  Lady  Margaret's  side, 
suggesting  some  slight  modification  in  the 
melody  as  suited  to  her  voice,  when  a  liveried 
servant  touched  her  and  whispered : 

"There  is  some  one  below  craves  instant 
speech  of  you,  Mistress  Delme'.  He  is  most 
urgent." 

Whispering  Lady  Margaret  that  she  must 
leave  the  room  for  a  moment  but  would  sing 
the  Comus  song  on  her  return,  Delme'  slipped 
quietly  out  and  down  the  broad  stair.  At  the 
foot  stood  the  servant  who  had  summoned 
her.  He  pointed  to  a  small  office  near  the 
entrance  of  the  house.  The  door  stood  ajar. 
Delme'  pushed  it  open,  entered,  then  closed  it 
behind  her,  for  the  one  who  waited  for  speech 


BROKEN  MUSIC  263 

with  her  was  John  Milton,  and  there  was  that 
in  his  face  which  told  her  he  must  see  her 
alone. 

He  had  come  on  foot  and  unprotected  from 
the  driving  storm ;  his  clothing  was  drenched, 
his  hair  hung  dark  and  dank  with  rain,  wrhile 
his  face  was  grey  and  bore  the  stamp  of  sharp 
mental  torture.  As  Delme',  in  her  delicately 
triumphant  beauty,  a  figure  of  radiant  light 
and  charm,  appeared  before  his  eyes  his  face 
was  suddenly  touched  by  a  tremulous  smile, 
the  pathos  of  which  tore  her  heart. 

"What  is  it?  Oh,  what  is  it?"  she  cried  and 
stretched  both  hands  out,  taking  his. 

"To-night,  dear,"  he  began,  then  broke  off; 
then  again — "to-night — it  was  to  have  been 
.  .  .  Delme' — she  is  here." 

"Who?" 

Beimels  colour  did  not  change.  Her  voice 
was  firm  and  musical.  She  had  forgotten  the 
existence  of  Mary  Powell. 

"The  wToman  ...  I  married." 

"What  does  she  desire?"  Delme'  trembled 
now  and  all  light  fled  her  face. 

"That  I  receive  her  .  .  .  forgive  her.     She 


264       The   IMPERIAL    VOICE 

is  homeless,  sick,  humbled  in  the  dust, — but, 
Delme',  neither  God  nor  man  can  command 
that  I  enter  again  into  that  bondage  of  dis 
cordant  minds, — I,  who  could  have  you  for 
wife!" 

For  a  moment  Delink  faced  him  speechless. 
Then  with  quiet,  deliberate  movements  she 
drew  a  chair  for  herself  to  the  large  table 
beside  which  Milton  stood  and  seated  herself, 
her  head  turned  slightly  that  she  might  not 
see  his  face.  She  knew  its  look  might  be 
more  than  she  could  bear,  and  besides  there 
seemed  a  compulsion  upon  her  to  listen  closely 
to  a  colloquy  of  two  voices  which,  at  the  very 
surface  and  edge  of  consciousness,  seemed  call 
ing  back  and  forth  within  her  in  a  weird 
antiphony  during  the  interview  which  fol 
lowed.  The  one  voice  cried : 

"This  man  is  kingly,  Jove-like.  The  world 
would  be  well  lost  for  his  sake." 

The  other  replied : 

"Honour  is  obedience.  Honour  is  obedi 
ence." 

Again  the  first  voice : 

"Think  what  this  man  has  suffered.     It  is 


BROKEN  MUSIC  265 

monstrous  to  fasten  fetters  again  upon  his 
spirit.  He  is  justified  in  defying  law  if  he  may 
not  create  it.  Leave  all.  Follow  him." 

And  the  response,  stern  and  solemn,  seemed 
an  echo  of  Prosper  Unwin's  word : 

"What  is  one  life  compared  to  bringing  mis 
rule  into  an  army?" 

All  the  while  she  was  listening  to  Milton's 
audible  voice  or  speaking  aloud  to  him  in  a 
tranquil,  reflective  tone  which  he  found  amaz 
ing  and  yet  clarifying  to  the  burning  chaos  of 
his  brain.  He  began  after  his  habit  to  pace 
the  floor,  his  manner  growing  calmer. 

"This  is  Mary  Powell,  whom  you  mar 
ried." 

"Yes,  even  she." 

"She  failed  in  love  and  duty  to  you  as 
your  wife."  Still  the  girl  maintained  her 
clear  equable  voice. 

"Yes,  verily." 

"She  forsook  you." 

"Yes." 

"She  remained  away  from  you  for — how 
long?" 

"Two  years  now  almost  precisely,  during 


266        The  IMPERIAL    VOICE 

which  time  I  sent  messenger  after  messenger 

to  bring  her  back "  Here  Milton  broke 

off,  his  utterance  failing  in  the  stress  of  hate 
ful  memory. 

"Yes,"  a  soothing  gentleness  crept  into 
Delmd's  tone,  but  she  did  not  turn  towards 
him ;  "yes,  I  remember.  Your  messengers  were 
repulsed,  even  ill-treated." 

"Scornfully  repulsed,  violently  threatened," 
interjected  Milton  harshly. 

"No  promise  was  given  that  your  wife 
would  return  to  you  later." 

"Nay,  rather  I  was  given  to  understand 
that  she  purposed  not  to  return." 

"So  far  all  seems  clear.  At  that  time,  I 
remember,"  Delme'  spoke  musingly,  "our  side 
was  having  the  worst  of  it  in  the  war.  Victory 
was  with  the  King's  army,  and  the  end  all 
thought  at  hand." 

"Even  so." 

His  face  was  drawn  by  a  smile  of  strange 
cynical  scorn  which  gave  it  an  almost  demo 
niacal  beauty. 

"And  now  the  King's  side  is  in  flat  despair, 
and  the  family  of  Mr.  Richard  Powell  without 


BROKEN  MUSIC  267 

a  roof  over  their  heads/'  he  added.  "Such  con 
ditions  call  aloud  for  penitence!" 

"They  break  the  proudest  heart,"  said 
Delme'  gently.  "Your  wife  comes  to  you 
again "  she  went  on.  "She  is  at  this  mo 
ment  in  London?" 

•'Yes/'  he  groaned ;  "there,  where  I  first  saw 
her." 

"She  does  not  come  proudly,  you  say,  seek 
ing  to  justify  her  action?" 

"Nay,  she  is  a  poor  broken  creature,  crying 
only  for  mercy  and  forgiveness,  asking  to  be 
made  as  one  of  my  hired  servants." 

"She  may  have  learned  much  in  two 
years,"  said  Delme'  quietly;  "she  was  very 
young." 

"But — my  God !  Come  how  she  may,  no  man 
can  ask  me  to  give  you  up,  to  take  her  back !" 
And  the  strong  man's  frame  shook  as  he  spoke. 
"Look  at  me,  Delme'!"  he  cried  sternly,  step 
ping  to  the  other  side  of  the  table  and  bending 
to  gaze  into  her  face.  But  at  the  sight 
of  something  in  it  he  recoiled,  and  stood 
clenching  hard  the  table's  edge  with  rigid 
fingers. 


268        TAe  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

"I  ask  you,  dear  master,"  she  said  very 
simply,  but  rising  to  full  face  him  now,  the 
solemnity  of  a  sacrament  in  her  eyes. 

"There  is  nothing  else.  Mary  Powell  is 
again  your  wife  for  better,  for  worse.  Is  it  not 
clear?" 

"God  teach  me  to  live!" 

The  words  came  between  Milton's  set  teeth 
like  an  inarticulate  groan. 

"We  have  to  forgive,  we  have  to  consent  to 
suffer,"  whispered  Delme',  her  hand  laid  with 
infinite  tenderness  upon  his  breast;  "else  have 
we  tasted  the  grace  of  God  in  vain." 

Then,  in  the  solemn  silence,  the  mysterious 
voice  sounding  within  her  breathed  its  burden 
from  her  lips: 

"Honour  is  obedience.  Honour  is  obedi 
ence." 

The  words  exercised  a  strange  power  upon 
the  tumultuous  struggle  within  the  man.  The 
hero  within  him  roused  as  at  a  trumpet  blast. 
He  became  august,  imposing. 

"Honour  is  obedience,"  he  repeated  slowly. 
"Law  abides  eternal.  Yes,  it  is  true.  Death, 
— the  death  of  hope, — is  an  incident." 


BROKEN  MUSIC  269 

Delme'  started.  Prosper's  very  words  upon 
her  master's  lips!  An  inexplicable  warmth 
as  of  the  touch  of  a  mighty  upholding  ran 
through  her. 

"Delme',  you  smile!"  cried  Milton,  wonder 
ing  greatly.  "Tell  me,  have  you  loved  me?" 

"I — thought  so,"  she  said  faintly,  and  for  an 
instant  her  lip  quivered.  "Will  you  go  now?" 
she  said,  having  permitted  him  for  a  little  to 
kiss  her  hands,  her  dress,  her  hair  in  his 
ecstasy  of  pain  and  final  parting.  "I  am  not 
too  strong,  myself,"  and  she  laughed,  a  piteous 
echo  of  her  old  blithe  laughter. 

"Yes,  I  will  go." 

"And  to  her?    Please  do  not  wait." 

"Yes,  to  her,  so  help  me  God!" 

"Help  you  God !"  she  whispered  and  smiled 
bravely  into  his  eyes. 

When  she  entered  the  drawing-room,  Delme' 
found  some  one,  who  it  was  she  failed  to  per 
ceive,  watching  for  her  return,  urging  that  she 
still  sing  the  promised  song.  Her  eyes  being 
brighter  than  before  even,  none  noticed  a 
change  in  her  save  Lady  Margaret,  who  would 
have  excused  her,  fearing  she  knew  not  what 


270        The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

from  the  mysterious  tensity  she  felt  to  have 
come  upon  her.  But  Beirut  only  smiled  and 
said: 

"Why  not,  dear  Lady  Margaret?  Why 
should  I  not  sing  as  I  promised?" 

Then  Lady  Margaret  took  her  place  at  the 
harpsichord  and  played  the  sweet  preluding 
notes  of  immortal  Youth  and  Joy,  while  Delink 
stood  facing  down  the  brilliant  room  wonder 
ing  if  the  bitterness  of  Death  was  passed,  such 
was  her  painless  freedom  of  spirit.  She  even 
touched  her  dress,  her  hand,  to  make  sure  of 
their  reality,  so  strong  was  her  sense  of  being 
sundered  from  her  bodily  self. 

Then  she  sang: 

"  '  Mortals  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue ;  she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  you  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime ; 
Or  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her.' " 

There  was  awe  while  she  sang,  and  after 
wards  a  tumult  of  tender  delight  through  the 
room,  and  Lady  Margaret,  taking  both  Delm^'s 
hands,  said  very  low : 


BROKEN  MUSIC 


"I  do  not  understand,  dear  child,  what  has 
befallen  you  to  turn  you  spirit  rather  than 
woman.  But  you  have  sung  as  those  words 
were  never  sung  before." 

"Did  I  sing  well?"  cried  the  girl,  the  gold 
lights  in  her  eyes  quenched  on  a  sudden  with 
tears;  "then  send  ine  home  if  you  will,  Lady 
Margaret,  for  I  arn  tired." 


In  the  house  in  St.  Martin's  Lane  candles 
still  burned  as  Milton  reached  it  coming  back 
through  a  sullen  mist  from  Villiers  Street. 
The  rain  fell  languidly  now,  drop  by  drop,  like 
slow  tears.  The  door  opened  instantly  at  his 
knocking.  He  saw  Blackborough,  but  neither 
spoke  as  they  passed  on  the  stair.  Mary  Mil 
ton  rose  as  he  entered  the  parlour  and  stood 
humbly  to  receive  him,  not  without  a  certain 
dignity  as  of  mute  resignation  to  his  will.  The 
desolation  of  his  face,  his  drenched,  neglected 
clothing,  his  mortal  weariness,  smote  the 
woman's  heart  of  her,  and  through  all  she  dis 
cerned  the  man's  loftiness  as  she  had  failed  to 
do  earlier. 


272        The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

"You  come  in  spite  of  the  rain,"  she  said, 
and  trembled. 

"Yes,  I  have  come,"  he  said  slowly; 
"you  will  pardon  that  I  have  taken  some 
hours  for  consideration.  I  am  sorry  to 
have  caused  you  need  for  waiting  till  so 
late." 

"That  is  nothing,"  she  protested.  "It  but 
serves  me  right  to  wait." 

He  smiled  faintly  at  her  humbleness. 

"I  have  few  words  to  say,"  he  continued; 
"while  you  chose  to  remain  away  I  held  myself 
released  before  God  from  the  marriage  bond 
and  should  presently  have  acted  in  all  honour 
upon  being  thus  released.  But  this  is  changed. 
You  have  returned,  promising  love  and  duty 
as  my  wife ;  you  claim  my  protection  and  sup 
port  as  your  husband.  I  do  not  deny  your 
claim.  I  hold  myself  no  longer  free  but  law 
fully  bound  to  receive  you." 

This  brief  dictum,  reversing  the  first  wild 
impulse  with  which  he  had  sought  Delme',  con 
travening  the  whole  contention  of  his  feverish 
divorce  theories  when  it  came  to  action,  re 
vealed  Milton's  chastity  of  strict  justice,  the 


BROKEN  MUSIC  273 

implacable  moral  sense  of  the  man,  resurgent. 
Blinded  for  a  moment  by  passion  and  the  re 
coil  of  his  spirit  from  the  first  shock  of  en 
counter,  a  woman's  touch  had  cleared  his 
vision  and  subdued  the  tumult  within  him. 
Nevertheless,  the  struggle  of  triumph  over  love 
on  the  one  hand  and  loathing  on  the  other  had 
changed  him  swiftly,  even  in  Mary  Milton's 
sight,  from  youth  to  age.  This  change  she 
perceived  as  he  stood,  his  arms  resting  upon 
the  back  of  a  chair,  confronting  her  with  lus 
treless  eyes,  but  what  lay  below  the  surface 
was  wholly  beyond  the  reach  of  her  childish 
plummet. 

An  exultant  throb  of  her  heart  marked  the 
perception  that  it  was  she,  the  married  wife, 
not  that  other,  who  had  won.  Mistress  Delm£ 
Davies  might  go  her  ways  now  and  cease  her 
designs  on  other  women's  husbands!  Casting 
down  her  eyes,  lest  they  betray  satisfaction, 
she  cried : 

"Then,  sir,  surely  I  may  come  home  to  Al- 
dersgate  and  care  for  you  and  your  father. 
You  do  look  ill  and  in  need  of  a  woman's 
nursing." 


274       The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

Something  in  his  face  checked  her.  She 
saw  that  she  was  overbold  with  her  forward 
ness  of  wifely  solicitude. 

Milton  bowed  with  formal  courtesy,  but  he 
did  not  smile. 

"You  are  very  kind.  I  am  not  ill;  you  can 
be  spared  the  burden  of  such  cares  at  present," 
he  said  coldly. 

Her  face  showed  her  disappointment.  In 
wardly  a  sense  of  inferiority  gnawed  the  last 
shreds  of  her  pride. 

"It  will  not  be  to  the  Aldersgate  you  will  re 
turn.  I  have  taken  a  house  in  the  Barbican/' 
Milton  proceeded — "a  house  you  will  perhaps 
find  cheerfuller  than  the  old  one,  at  least  it  is 
larger.  I  am  not  able  to  take  possession  of 
this  new  house  until  September." 

Mary  caught  her  breath  with  hasty  impulse 
to  protest  that  the  Aldersgate  Street  house 
was  quite  large  enough,  then  crowded  back  the 
words  lest  for  some  reason  they  should  sound 
stupid  when  spoken. 

"You  will  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  until 
September  to  put  up  with  lodgings  with 
relatives  of  mine  near  St.  Clement's.  I  shall 


BROKEN  MUSIC  275 

bid  them  do  all  in  their  power  for  your 
comfort." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  murmured  Mary ;  "but 
— surely,  sir,  you  will  come  there  sometimes 
yourself?" 

Again  her  husband  bowed,  thanked  her  with 
unconscious  stateliness,  and  went  on  with  the 
matter  in  hand. 

"I  am  much  distressed  for  your  father  and 
mother,  in  the  loss  of  their  home.  If  the  Gov 
ernment  follows  the  policy  of  sequestration 
of  property  of  the  Opposition  they  may  be 
presently  in  yet  worse  case." 

"I  know  not  how  worse  can  be,"  said  Mary 
plaintively. 

"Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  write  to  Mr. 
Richard  Powell,"  Milton  proceeded,  "that  in 
September  I  shall  have  a  roomier  house  at  my 
disposal,  to  which  I  invite  him  with  your 
mother,  and  any  of  your  family  whom  it  may 
convenience.  Pray,  assure  him  that  he  will  be 
welcome  to  make  my  house  his  home  so  long  as 
it  suits  him." 

Upon  this  wholly  undreamed-of  magnanim 
ity,  Mary  impetuously  grasped  her  husband's 


276        The  IMPERIAL   VOICE 

hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  looking  hope 
fully  to  his  melting  then  and  taking  her  in  his 
arms. 

This,  however,  did  not  follow.  As  soon  as 
he  could  do  so  with  gentleness  Milton  with 
drew  his  hand,  bade  her  good-night,  and  made 
haste  to  leave  the  house. 


BOOK  V 
PROSPER 


XX 
LADY  MARGARET 

IT  was  November,  following  the  victory  at 
Naseby.  London  had  shaken  off  her 
fetters  of  fortification  and  her  grinmess 
of  war,  and  was  gay  with  the  exhilaration  of 
a  return  to  the  pursuits  of  peace.  Towards 
noon  of  a  sunny  day  two  men  engaged  in  ab 
sorbing  conversation  came  through  Ave  Maria 
Lane  and  down  St.  Andrew's  Hill,  to  the  river 
bank  at  Blackfriars'  Stairs.  One  of  these,  in 
the  garb  of  a  French  Huguenot  minister,  was 
Philip  Unwin ;  the  man  writh  him,  in  a  major's 
undress  uniform,  was  his  brother  Prosper. 

At  their  signalling  a  boatman  rowed  a  small 
wherry  to  the  shore  and  the  brothers  entered 
it,  still  continuing  their  eager  conference,  only 
interrupted  by  a  word  to  the  boatman  bidding 
him  take  them  to  Westminster.  As  the  wherry 
passed  swiftly  on  its  way,  threading  dexter 
ously  between  the  craft  of  all  kinds  with 

279 


280  PROSPER 


which  the  river  thronged,  the  boatman,  listen 
ing,  found  that  no  word  of  the  conversation 
was  intelligible  to  him.  The  Unwins,  as  was 
their  habit  when  in  their  own  family  limits, 
returned  to  the  Walloon  French,  their 
mother's  native  tongue. 

At  Villiers  Street  on  the  Strand,  Major 
Unwin  left  the  boat,  which  wras  directed  to 
proceed  to  Westminster  with  the  clerical  pas 
senger,  wait  upon  his  convenience  there,  and 
return  in  an  hour's  time  to  the  Villiers  Street 
wharf. 

Knocking  at  the  door  of  Lady  Margaret 
Ley's  house,  Prosper  was  promptly  admitted, 
and,  as  if  expected,  conducted  upstairs  and 
ushered  into  the  drawing-room,  where  the 
Lady  herself  came  forward  to  meet  him  with 
a  word  of  friendly  welcome. 

"Home  from  the  wars?"  she  cried  in  her  ab 
rupt  but  kindly  fashion.  "What  next,  then?" 

"That  is  the  question,"  said  Prosper.  "At 
least  I  have  decided  to  lay  down  my  commis 
sion.  The  war  drags  slowly  now,  being  as 
good  as  off,  and  negotiations  on,  in  which  I 
cut  no  figure." 


LADY  MARGARET          281 

"And  you  are  uncertain  what  to  turn  to 
next,  like  many  another?" 

"Even  so.  Yet  have  the  last  twenty-four 
hours  brought  me  such  news  as  may  shape 
things  all  anew  and  over  suddenly." 

"Your  brother,  the  Parson,  is  up  from  Can 
terbury?" 

"Yes,  he  came  yesterday." 

"So  I  learned  through  Calamy,  his  good 
friend  and  mine.  Hence  I  sent  for  you,  not 
knowing  your  brother." 

Prosper  bowed  with  his  soldier's  preciseness 
of  gallantry,  and  Lady  Margaret,  who,  above 
all  things,  liked  what  she  called  a  proper  man, 
smiled,  observing  his  firm,  well-knit  figure  and 
his  handsome  face  with  its  present  touch  of 
perplexity. 

"Can  you  not  guess  what  I  want  of 
you?  What  but  tidings  from  that  child, 
Delme',  dear  to  God  and  also,  in  particular, 
to  me." 

"To  me  also,  madam,"  said  Prosper  gravely, 
a  certain  firm  compression  of  his  mouth  for 
bidding  light  rejoinder. 

"That  I  have  divined.    So  we  are  both  badly 


282  PROSPER 


treated  and  can  conspire  without  scruple 
against  a  common  enemy." 

"Badly  wounded,  if  I  may  make  bold  to  cor 
rect  your  Ladyship,  not  badly  treated." 

"I  have  not  seen  Delme'  since  midsummer." 

"Nor  I  since  just  after  Naseby.  She  left  for 
Canterbury,  they  told  me,  about  the  time  we 
fought  at  Lamport,  at  the  fag-end  of  the  war." 

"You  can  easily  see  why  she  thought  fit  to 
leave  London,  Major." 

"I  suppose  she  will  not  care  much  for  meet 
ing  with  Mistress  Milton,"  Prosper  rejoined 
reluctantly. 

"Far  less  for  meeting  with  Milton  himself," 
said  Lady  Margaret  abruptly.  "I  think,  to  say 
truly,  she  did  not  dare  after  the  wife's  return. 
At  least  she  has  never  seen  him,  never  laid 
eyes  on  him  once,  since  that  night  here  when 
we  celebrated  Naseby." 

Prosper  looked  into  Lady  Margaret's  face 
with  pride  and  pain  in  his  eyes. 

"I  had  ever  thought,  your  Ladyship,  that 
my  cousin  could  have  made  a  soldier." 

"Had  thought,  man!  Has  she  failed  in 
aught,  then,  of  courage?  Ask  John  Milton." 


LADY  MARGARET          288 

"I  care  to  ask  John  Milton  nothing,  Madam. 
He  has  blighted  the  sweetest  life  God  ever 
made! — Your  pardon,  my  Lady,"  for  a  fierce 
anathema  trembled  on  Prosper's  lips,  bitten 
back  by  force. 

"Nay,  you  need  not  fear  to  speak  out  in  my 
presence,  Major  Unwin,  who  am  myself  a 
soldier's  wife.  Yet  denounce  not  my  friend 
Milton,  since  he  has  now  e'en  enough  to  bear, 
— a  mindless  mate  and  the  whole  Powell  fam 
ily  on  his  hands,  Avho  weary  him  almost  to 
death,  as  I  chance  to  know  full  well." 

Prosper  was  silent,  yet  his  face  showed  a 
touch  of  softening. 

"You  would  forgive  the  man  everything,  my 
friend,  if  you  should  see  him  now,"  continued 
the  Lady.  "It  is  not  that  he  is  not  seemingly 
in  fair  health  and  spirits  and  harder  at  work 
than  ever,  but  that  the  glory,  the  lustre,  of  his 
youth  is  so  palpably  fled.  I  cannot  describe 
the  change  in  him.  It  is  subtle,  unconscious 
I  believe  to  himself,  and  yet  it  leaves  him, — I 
know  not  how, — nobler  and  stronger  than  be 
fore.  And  he  has  bowed  himself  bravely  to 
his  burden.  No  man  can  say  otherwise." 


284  PROSPER 


"That  I  can  believe,"  Prosper  made  answer 
slowly,  "being,  take  him  for  all  in  all,  the 
greatest  man  among  us,  next  to  my  Lord  Gen 
eral  Cromwell." 

"Gallantly  spoken.  You  please  me  better 
now,  since  fair  play  for  one's  foes  is  the  thing 
I  like  best  in  a  soldier.  But  it  is  not  of  John 
Milton  I  care  most  now  to  speak,  but  of  little 
Mistress  Delme'.  What  says  your  brother  con 
cerning  her?" 

"That  she  is  no  longer  herself,  but  a  pale, 
pining  thing,  with  hollow  cheeks  and  eyes,  a 
smile  that  means  nothing,  thoughts  that  are 
never  present." 

"She  is  fretting  herself  to  death  then  over 
what  cannot  be  changed,  and  she  not  twenty 
yet — the  foolish  child.  Alack,  the  pity  of  it !" 

"Yes,  I  judge  that  all  about  her  fear  she 
will  wither  away  soon  and  die,  yet  can  no  one 
help  her,  nor  she  herself." 

"Why  do  you  not  help  her,  Prosper  Unwin? 
You  love  her.  She  is  weak;  you  are  strong. 
Shame  upon  you  if  you  stand  and  see  her  sink 
like  a  bird  with  broken  wings,  and  do  not  lift 
a  hand  to  aid." 


LADY  MARGARET          285 

His  cheeks  flushed  hotly. 

"What  can  a  man  whom  she  has  so  often  re 
pulsed  do  for  a  maid  in  case  like  hers?"  he 
cried  bitterly. 

"Do?  Why,  everything — anything!  Snatch 
her  out  of  this  foolish  dream,  this  world  of 
shadows  and  memories.  'Tis  but  a  sick  imag 
ination  keeps  her  dwelling  among  them.  If 
she  were  stronger,  she  would  rouse  and  shake 
them  off;  since  she  is  not,  some  one  must  for 
her.  She  is  a  gallant  girl,  my  Delme',  and  no 
coward  to  dwine  with  moping  melancholy 
because  the  greatest  genius  in  England  has 
done  her  the  grace  of  loving  her,  and  the 
greater  grace  of  leaving  her  when  honour  must 
have  it  so." 

"Go  down  to  Canterbury,  Madam,  and  tell 
her  this." 

"Go  yourself!  'Tis  a  man  she  needs  now, 
not  a  woman.  You  strike  me,  sir,  as  a  master 
ful  sort  of  man.  You  might  put  a  maid's 
vagaries  to  rout  with  one  bold  dash  if  you 
chose,  and  she  would  like  you  the  better  that 
you  dared." 

Without  knowing  what  he  did  Prosper  rose 


286  PROSPER 


and  strode  the  length  of  the  great  drawing- 
room,  his  brows  knit,  then  turned  and  stand 
ing  before  the  lady,  said  curtly, 

"Your  meaning  is  not  clear  to  me.  But  it 
is  best  in  any  case  that  I  explain  to  your  Lady 
ship  that  I  am  about  leaving  England." 

"For  long?" 

"For  good." 

"Gracious,  man,  if  that  is  so  do  not  leave 
your  cousin  here  to  die.  'Faith,  I  believe  you 
are  the  only  person  can  save  her.  What  takes 
you  then  from  England,  in  such  hot  haste?" 

"I  said,  your  Ladyship  may  recall,  when 
first  we  began  this  conversation,  that  news  had 
come  within  a  day  which  bids  fair  to  shape 
things  over  for  me  beyond  the  common." 

"May  I  know  this  news?" 

"Yes,  although  no  one  besides  in  England 
knows  it,  save  my  father  and  mother  and 
Philip." 

"Does  Delrne'  know?" 

"Oh,  no,"  and  Prosper  sighed;  "it  is  long 
since  they  gave  over  seeking  to  talk  with  her 
of  things  present.  She  cares  nothing  for  what 
happens  to  me — to  any  of  us." 


LADY  MARGARET          287 

"Then  the  girl  is  not  herself  and  so  I  said. 
Heroic  measures  must  restore  her.  Proceed, 
sir,  if  you  please." 

"I  shall  be  obliged  to  ask  your  patience,  and 
go  back  to  relate  a  bit  of  my  family  history. 
My  father,  Anthoine  Unwin,  belongs  to  the 
house  of  the  Onwhyns  of  Bersele,  lords  of 
the  Seigniory  of  Bersele,  on  the  Island  of  Wal- 
cheren,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Scheldt." 

"So  much  I  remember  once  to  have  heard." 

"The  Van  Berseles  have  been  Catholic  from 
the  beginning,  and  thus  my  father's  conversion 
to  Protestantism  and  his  marriage  with  a 
Huguenot  made  an  estrangement  between  him 
and  his  older  brother,  the  present  head  of  the 
house.  This  uncle,  much  older  than  my  father, 
has  sometime  since  lost  his  wife,  who  it  was, 
we  now  understand,  that  inspired  him  in  the 
feud  with  my  father.  The  young  Heer  van 
Bersele,  his  heir  apparent,  was  killed  three 
months  ago  by  a  fall  from  his  horse,  and 
leaves  no  issue." 

"Most  interesting,"  murmured  Lady  Mar 
garet,  all  attention. 

"The  old  Lord,  now  advanced  in  years  and 


288  PROSPER 


in  feeble  health,  wrote  to  my  father  some  time 
since,  asking  him  to  send  one  of  his  sons  to 
abide  with  him  in  his  castle,  looking  to  suc 
ceed  him  in  his  title  and  estates." 
"Is  not  your  father  heir  apparent?" 
"Yes,  but  my  father  will  never  go  back  to 
the    Netherlands.        He   is   immovable.     He 
waives  his  right." 

"Ah,  I  see.    Then  your  brother ?" 

"My  brother  is  pastor,  as  you  know,  of  the 
Undercrofters  and  has  no  interest  outside  his 
learning  and  his  religion.  He  is  of  the  same 
mind  in  this  as  my  father.  I,  being  rather  a 
reprobate  in  comparison,  a  soldier,  with 
naught  left  to  fight  for,  and  a  hopeless  lover, 
would  as  lief  seek  my  fortune  in  the  home  of 
my  forbears  as  to  bide  longer  on  British  soil. 
Philip  has  but  yesterday  come  to  London  to 
acquaint  me  with  all  the  facts.  It  is  deter 
mined  now  between  us  that  I  set  out  to-mor 
row  to  cross  to  Walcheren,  and  try  my  hand 
at  pleasing  the  old  Lord." 

"Excellent.  I  approve  this  purpose,  Major 
Unwin.  May  you  succeed,  as  you  deserve,  to 
the  Seigniory  of  Bersele,  and  there  serve  your 


LADY  MARGARET          289 

fellows  no  less  gallantly  than  you  have  here. 
Now  then,  let  us  return  to  the  proposition 
which  I  made  when  you  first  entered  here." 

"I  do  not  recall  a  proposition, — of  what  do 
you  speak?"  asked  Prosper,  perplexed. 

"That  we  conspire  together  without  scruple 
against  a  common  enemy!" 

The  sun  was  shining  brilliantly  on  the  grey 
water  of  the  Thames  when  Major  Unwin 
leaped  into  the  wherry  drawn  up  alongside 
the  shore.  Philip  sat  in  the  stern,  his  fine 
grave  face  lifted  with  an  unspoken  question. 

"Ask  me  nothing !"  cried  Prosper  in  French. 
"Off  to  Holland  to-morrow,  but  if  all  goes 
well  between  me  and  the  old  Lord  of  Bersele 
you  may  see  me  back  for  an  hour  or  two  by 
Christmas.  I  have  this  day  pledged  myself  to 
a  madder  venture  than  any  you  ever  knew  me 
put  my  hand  to,  Philip.  Mad,  mad,  mad!" 
he  muttered  under  breath;  removed  his  hat, 
then,  as  if  glad  to  feel  the  cold  wind  on  his 
head.  Yet  in  his  eyes  was  a  formidable  and 
threatening  fire. 


XXI 

A  GALLOP  OVER  HARBLEDOWN 

CHRISTMAS-TIDE  again  in  Canterbury, 
and  five  years  since  John  Milton  came 
down  in  the  London  coach  and  found  his 
young  pupil,  Delme'  Davies,  on  her  knees 
in  the  Undercroft,  at  the  solemn  service.  It 
was  two  days  before  Christmas,  and  eleven  in 
the  morning ;  again  the  Strangers  were  gather 
ing  for  worship  in  their  ancient  sanctuary. 
This  time  Delme  was  not  among  them,  but  sit 
ting  alone  in  her  uncle's  house  in  Mercery 
Lane. 

Good  Dame  Unwin  had  not  pressed  the  girl 
to  go  with  her,  as  she  often  did,  and  Deline", 
watching  her  and  Anthoine  walking  slowly 
down  to  Christ  Church  Gate,  breathed  a  sigh 
of  relief  at  being  left  alone,  and  dropping  the 
wreaths  of  holly  she  had  offered  to  wind, 
turned  again  to  her  favourite  nook  in  the 
chimney  corner. 

290 


OVER   HARBLEDOWN       291 

Prosper  Unwin,  a  month  earlier,  had  given 
an  over-true  description  of  the  girl  to  Lady 
Margaret  Ley,  for  the  spirit  of  her  seemed 
broken,  and  from  her  face  all  brightness  fled. 
As  she  sat  with  her  head  resting  against  the 
tall  back  of  the  settle,  a  pathetic  languor 
lurked  in  every  line,  and  there  was  a  weary 
droop  to  eyelids  and  lips.  It  was  as  if  in  the 
hour  of  self-conquest,  when  she  had  inspired . 
Milton  to  go  back  to  his  wife  and  his  duty,  the 
girl  had  gathered  up  all  her  reserves  of  spirit, 
soul  and  body  in  a  tremendous  effort  which 
had  left  her  clean  forspent. 

But  to-day  Delink  had  that  in  mind  which 
called  for  an  act  of  energy,  though  no  one 
might  witness  it.  Rousing  herself  and  looking 
around  to  make  sure  that  she  was  alone,  the 
girl  drew  from  her  breast  a  paper,  worn  al 
most  to  shreds  with  much  unfolding.  This 
she  opened  and  read,  while  her  colour  came 
and  went: 


"  'Lady,  that  in  the  prime  of  earliest  youth 

Wisely  hast  shunn'd  the  broad  way  and  the  green, 
And  with  those  few  art  eminently  seen, 

That  labour  up  the  hill  of  heavenly  truth ; 


292  PROSPER 

The  better  part  with  Mary  and  with  Ruth 
Chosen  thou  hast;  and  they  that  overween, 
And  at  thy  growing  virtues  fret  their  spleen, 
No  anger  find  in  thee  but  pity  and  ruth. 

Thy  care  is  fix'd  and  zealously  attends 
To  fill  thy  odorous  lamp  with  deeds  of  light 
And  hope  that  reaps  not  shame.     Therefore  be  sure 

Thou,  when  the  Bridegroom,  with  his  feastful  friends, 
Passes  to  bliss,  at  the  mid  hour  of  night, 
Hast  gain'd  thy  entrance,  Virgin  wise  and  pure.' " 

The  sonnet,  addressed  to  herself,  was  dated 
in  June  of  that  year;  it  was  signed,  John 
Milton. 

Beneath  her  apparent  apathy  Delme'  had 
been  undergoing  through  these  months  a  spir 
itual  struggle  in  which  no  person  was  per 
mitted  to  share.  It  was  her  religious  purpose 
to  crush  out  from  her  heart  her  love  for  John 
Milton,  a  love  which  she  conceived  of  now 
as  sin.  This  continued  conflict  it  was,  waged 
unseen  even  by  those  who  loved  her  most  ten 
derly,  which  was  wearing  away  her  strength. 
To-day  she  had  resolved  to  sacrifice  the  one 
last  visible  link  between  him  and  herself,  the 
one  only  tangible  token  of  his  love  which  he 
had  given  her — the  precious  sonnet.  She  had 
no  right  to  cherish  it,  and  she  had  in  her  mo- 


OVER   HARBLEDOWN       293 

notony  of  morbid  brooding  conceived  a  super 
stitious  fancy  that  if  this  were  destroyed  she 
might  at  last  forget  and  learn  again  to  live 
her  life. 

Rising,  pressing  the  paper  with  simple  girl 
ish  solemnity  to  her  lips,  she  laid  it  in  orderly 
fashion  now  on  the  red  embers  in  the  deep 
chimney  and  wratched  it  burn, — her  living  sac 
rifice.  With  clasped  hands  and  closed  eyes 
she  lifted  her  heart  in  prayer  that  in  God's 
sight  the  sacrifice  might  be  holy,  acceptable, 
availing. 

Through  her  praying  Delme'  was  startled  to 
hear  the  door  opened  from  the  street  and  a 
firm  and  by  no  means  soft  footstep  approach 
ing  down  the  room.  Two  hands  were  upon 
her  shoulders  before  she  could  turn  and  Pros 
per  Unwin  bent  to  print  a  kiss  frankly  and 
without  to-do  upon  her  forehead. 

"Merry  Christmas,  little  sweetheart!"  he 
cried,  his  voice  ringing  with  joyous  vigour,  as 
if  there  never  had  been  and  never  could  be  on 
earth  cause  for  aught  but  gladness.  Delme', 
accustomed  of  late  to  anxious  looks  and  sub 
dued  constraint  in  all  who  addressed  her,  was 


294  PROSPER 


startled  into  a  shadowy  smile,  which  strove 
to  be  gay. 

"Pray  no  more,  Delme'!"  cried  Prosper 
boldly ;  "there  is  a  time  for  praying  and  a  time 
for  galloping  over  Harbledown,  and  that's 
now  with  the  great  frost.  The  ground  is  crisp 
wTith  a  cover  of  snow,  the  air  as  keen  as  a 
rapier,  and  my  nag  pawing  the  earth  up  to 
be  off." 

"But,  Prosper!"  cried  Delme',  fingering  un 
consciously  the  great  steel  buckle  of  his  riding 
cloak  and  looking  up  with  something  of  her 
old  affectionate  eagerness  into  his  face,  "how 
is  it  you  are  here?  Nobody  said  you  were 
coming  for  Christmas.  Where  are  you  come 
from?  Where  is  your  regiment  now?  I  have 
forgot,"  she  added  suddenly,  a  little  ashamed 
at  her  negligence. 

"In  Devonshire,"  he  answered,  glad  she  had 
asked  him  nothing  harder;  he  having,  in  fact, 
crossed  but  the  day  before  from  Holland.  "On 
with  your  cloak  and  hood,  Mistress,  and 
furred  shoes  for  your  little  feet,  for  the  air  is 
sharp  with  frost.  Boots  and  saddles  and 
away  is  the  order!  We'll  see  if  we  can't  put 


OVER   HARBLEDOWN       295 

some  red  into  your  cheeks  for  Christinas 
yet." 

Delme',  no  time  to  lapse  into  disinclination 
being  given  her,  ran  upstairs  for  shoes  and 
cloak  and  came  down  in  a  trice,  tying  her 
quilted  hood  of  black  velvet,  lined  with  coney, 
under  her  chin. 

"Gad,  but  you  are  bonny  in  that  hood,  little 
coz,"  cried  Prosper  gallantly,  striding  then  to 
open  the  door.  A  groom  held  a  big  bay  cavalry 
horse  in  the  lane  before  the  house,  and  Prosper 
stopped  short  Beimels  sudden  misgivings  as  to 
how  she  was  to  ride  with  but  one  horse  be 
tween  them,  by  taking  one  foot  in  his  hand, 
swinging  her  up  to  the  well-padded  pillion, 
and  himself  into  the  saddle  before  her.  Before 
she  caught  breath  they  had  dashed  into  the 
High  Street  and  in  short  order  were  out 
through  the  Westgate  and  galloping  by  the  old 
Pilgrims'  Way  over  Harbledown. 

"Oh,  but  this  air  is  glorious!"  cried  Delmd, 
when  she  had  breath  enough  for  words.  Pros 
per  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  a  certain  tension 
in  his  face  relaxed. 

"You've  been  too  much  shut  in,  DelmeY'  he 


296  PROSPER 


said  in  matter-of-fact  fashion;  "it's  high  time 
you  took  to  riding.  What  has  Phil  been  think 
ing  of  not  to  get  a  saddle  horse  and  put  you 
on  it  long  ago?" 

"Don't  blame  Phil,"  cried  Delme'  with  sud 
den  compunction;  "to  say  the  truth,  Prosper, 
I've  been  horrid  to  him  and  everybody  so  long 
that  they've  learned  to  let  me  alone." 

"Then  it's  time  I  took  a  hand  and  straight 
ened  you  out  a  bit,  eh?" 

Delme  laughed  with  so  much  of  her  nat 
ural  gaiety  that  Prosper's  military  moustachio 
fairly  curled  with  glee.  There  was  silence 
then  for  a  long  stretch  as  they  galloped  on 
past  the  thick  dark  line  of  Bigbury  Wood  at 
a  good  speed,  fairly  skimming  through  the  air, 
it  seemed  to  Delme',  while  her  blood  ran  warm 
and  quick,  and  her  spirits  rose  with  every 
mile.  This  close  contact  with  Prosper  gave 
her  sundry  small  sensations  by  no  means  dis 
agreeable.  She  could  not  fail  to  note  the  sol 
dierly  grace  of  his  figure,  supple  and  slender, 
though  with  muscles  like  iron;  she  liked  his 
close-cropped  hair,  fair  and  fitting  neatly  the 
nape  of  his  neck ;  also  the  outline  of  his  firm, 


OVER   HARELEDOWN      297 

clean-shaven  cheek  and  chin.  She  began  to 
wish  he  would  turn  oftener  in  the  saddle  to 
look  at  her ;  that  look  in  his  eyes  set  her  pulses 
to  throbbing  in  a  way  she  had  never  thought 
to  know  again.  Was  ever  faithfuller  lover? 
How  hard  it  must  be  to  care  so  long  without 
return !  She  understood  now  what  love  meant 
and  was  all  at  once  scandalized  in  reflecting 
on  her  own  hardness  of  heart.  Again  and 
again  she  saw  in  her  mind's  eye  the  burning 
sonnet,  and  the  superstition  of  a  release  from 
the  old  hopeless  passion  through  that  sacrifice 
gained  upon  her. 

After  one  o'clock  they  slackened  pace,  trot 
ting  into  Faversham  and  drawing  rein  before 
the  Ship  Inn. 

"What!"  cried  Delme',  when  Prosper,  dis 
mounting,  held  up  his  hands  to  lift  her  from 
the  pillion,  "surely  we  are  not  to  stop  here? 
'Tis  most  unusual,  I  fear,  Prosper.  What 
would  people  say  if  we  go  into  this  inn  to 
gether?  They  might  think "  Here  she 

broke  off,  blushing  high,  and  holding 
back. 

"They  might  think  me  the  luckiest  man  in 


298  PROSPER 

the  world  instead  of  the  most  unlucky,  for  a 
fact,"  said  Prosper  composedly,  and  with  the 
words  he  clasped  her  round  the  waist  and 
lifted  her  to  the  ground,  then  turned  as  if  her 
scruples  were  of  no  smallest  account  and 
directed  an  hostler,  who  now  appeared,  what 
fodder  to  give  his  horse. 

The  door  of  the  inn  was  thrown  open  and 
Delm£  was  drawn  into  the  cosey  parlour, 
where  a  bright  fire  glowed  and  the  air  was 
pungent  with  rosemary  and  cedar  hanging  in 
ropes  from  the  smoky  beams  of  the  ceiling. 
The  best  of  cheer  was  provided  them  at  a  table 
drawn  to  the  fireside,  and  covered  with  linen 
coarse  in  thread  but  bleached  to  a  gleaming 
white.  They  had  the  room  to  themselves, 
which  quieted  Delme's  uneasiness,  and  the 
fresh  cleanness  and  homely  comfort  in  these 
novel  surroundings  gave  her  a  sudden  vivid 
sense  of  physical  well-being  to  which  she  had 
been  long  a  stranger. 

Prosper  watched  furtively  every  bite  and 
sup  she  took,  though  feigning  interest  in  his 
own  food  alone,  which  he  was  careful  to  take 
with  an  appetite  which  should  give  her  good 


OVER   HARBLEDOWN       299 

example.  He  exulted  to  see  her  follow  it  with 
some  success. 

"Now  we  must  hasten  home,"  Delme'  said, 
as  they  rose  from  table;  "what  will  my  aunt 
think  when  she  finds  me  gone?  She  does  not 
even  know  that  you  have  come." 

They  put  on  their  heavy  cloaks  again  and 
came  out  to  the  inn  yard  where  the  horse  was 
waiting. 

"She  will  not  be  uneasy,"  said  Prosper  care 
lessly,  as  he  swung  her  up  to  her  place,  then, 
mounting  after  her,  added,  "I  left  word  with 
the  maids  that  I  was  back  and  that  we'd  gone 
for  a  long  ride,"  with  which  he  turned  the 
horse's  head  away  from  Canterbury  and  gal- 
lopped  on  towards  Sittingbourne. 

"Nay,  Prosper,"  Delme'  cried  then  in  sur 
prise  and  even  dismay,  knowing  well  that  soon 
the  early  December  dusk  would  be  upon  them ; 
"there  can  be  too  much  of  even  a  good  thing. 
If  you  please,  I  would  rather  turn  homeward 
now." 

There  was  no  answer,  but  Prosper  let  the 
horse  feel  a  prick  of  his  spur  and  they  sped  on 
toward  the  west,  the  sun  dropping  round  and 


300  PROSPER 


red  before  them  behind  orchard  trees.  The 
wind  was  rising  and  whistled  shrilly  past 
them. 

"Prosper!"  cried  Delme'  insistently;  "Pros 
per  !  You  must  not  go  on  further.  I  protest, 
Prosper." 

There  was  no  reply.  Did  he  not  hear?  Had 
he  lost  his  senses?  Delinks  heart  throbbed 
violently  with  anger  and  something  like  fear. 

"Major  Unwin!"  she  shouted  next,  but 
could  not  give  the  shout  the  cold  reproach  she 
wished  it  to  convey  at  his  wild  disregard  of 
her  wishes.  Presently,  when  she  had  become 
silent  for  sheer  helplessness  he  turned  and 
she  saw  his  face  full  of  good-tempered  amuse 
ment,  and  an  easy  mastery  that  piqued  and 
yet  mysteriously  pleased  her,  as  he  said: 

"Keep  still  now,  Delme".  Though  the  ride 
be  a  bit  long  it  is  for  the  good  of  your  health, 
my  dear,  and  well  you  know  you  can  trust  me 
to  take  you  safely  the  world  round,  were  it 
needful." 

"It  not  being  needful  that  I  start  just  now 
to  go  the  world  round,"  Delme"  answered  in 
dignantly,  "I  must  ask  you,  sir,  this  very 


OVER   HARBLEDOWN       301 

moment  to  turn  back  to  Canterbury.  'Twill 
be  dark  now  before  we  get  there." 

"  'Faith,  I  think  you're  right  in  that,"  was 
the  imperturbable  answer,  "so  we'd  best  go 
forward  a  while  longer." 

And  forward  they  went,  Prosper  paying  no 
farther  heed  to  her  remonstrances  than  he 
did  to  the  noise  of  the  wind,  until  the  girl's 
mettle  was  up  and  fiercely,  and  her  mind  kept 
busy  writh  thoughts  of  hot  vengeance  upon  her 
cousin  for  his  deeds.  He,  guessing  what  went 
forward  in  her  little  head  under  its  furred 
hood  behind  him,  seemed  to  find  a  pleasurable 
incitement  in  the  thought  to  plunge  on  and  on, 
always  with  that  masterful  smile  when  she 
caught  sight  of  his  face,  through  the  gathering 
twilight. 

They  dashed  through  Sittingbourne  still  at 
a  gallop.  Delme'  saw  lights  in  the  houses  as 
they  passed,  for  night  by  now  had  fallen,  and 
was  much  inclined  to  shout  to  men  in  the 
streets  to  stop  the  horse  and  set  her  free,  yet 
could  not  bring  herself  to  do  it  for  something 
of  interdict  and  warning  in  Prosper's  very 
silence.  After  Sittingbourne  they  turned  due 


302  PROSPER 

north  and  towards  the  sea,  as  Delme  knew  by 
the  damp  and  the  salt  on  her  lips,  but  still 
they  galloped  on  through  the  gathering  dark 
ness,  over  frozen  swale  and  reedy  fen  until 
lights  pricked  through  the  gloom  again  and 
they  rode  down  the  narrow  street  of  a  small 
town,  whose  name  Delme'  could  not  even  guess. 

Stiffened  and  benumbed  by  the  cold  and 
long  riding,  bewildered  and  furious  with  Pros 
per,  whose  purpose  she  could  not  guess,  Delme 
yet  felt  a  strange,  excited  thrill  of  daring,  a 
sense  of  mystery  and  adventure  mounting  high 
and  higher,  and  dispelling  the  last  remnants 
of  her  long,  listless  heart-sick  apathy. 

The  horse's  hoofs  sounded  hollow  on  a  floor 
ing  of  timber,  but  through  the  darkness  Delme' 
could  discern  nothing  save  what  looked  like 
the  masts  of  a  large  brig,  close  at  hand,  with 
a  lantern  slung  here  and  there  in  the  rigging. 
Abruptly  Prosper  reined  in  his  horse,  leaped 
from  the  saddle,  lifted  Delme'  to  the  ground, 
then,  just  as  she  was  about  to  break  into 
heated  demands  as  to  his  purpose  and  his  ex 
cuse,  she  felt  some  one  clasp  her  hand  firmly 
and  saw  beside  her  the  dim  figure  of  a  woman 


OVER   HARBLEDOWN       303 

in  travelling  cloak  and  hood,  who  appeared 
to  be  waiting  for  her. 

Delme'  turned  quickly  back  to  address  Pros 
per,  but  went  half-faint  with  surprise  to  find 
him  nowhere  in  sight.  The  place  seemed 
deserted,  so  far  as  she  could  discover  in  the 
dark.  Where  could  Prosper  be?  What  was 
she  to  do  next? 

"Come,  come,"  cried  the  woman,  who  still 
held  her  hard  by  the  wrist,  speaking  with  a 
foreign  accent.  "Quick !  —  quick,  Mist'ess 
Davies!  Lady  Marg'it,  Lady  Marg'it  Ley!" 

Repeating  this  name  rapidly  over  and  over 
the  woman  drew  Delme',  too  bewildered  now 
to  object,  across  a  narrow  plank  and  over  the 
side  of  the  brig,  whose  lights  she  had  perceived 
a  moment  earlier. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  the  girl,  stand 
ing  on  a  narrow  strip  of  deck  and  looking  with 
piercing  anxiety  into  the  woman's  face.  "I 
know  who  you  are  now.  Oh,  I  have  seen  you 
in  Villiers  Street!"  a  sudden  sense  of  safety 
and  relief  warming  her  heart;  "you  are  the 
Brabantine  lace  woman  Lady  Margaret  keeps 
ever  at  work  at  her  wardrobe." 


304  PROSPER 


"Ess,  ess,"  responded  the  woman,  laughing 
and  clapping  her  hands,  delighted  at  Beimels 
recognition.  "Lady  Marg'it,  Lady  Marg'it  Ley." 

"Is  the  Lady  Margaret  here?"  cried  Delme'. 

"Ess,  ess,"  repeated  the  woman  reassur 
ingly,  at  the  same  time  handing  her  a  note. 

Looking  about  Delrne'  discovered  a  red  lan 
tern  standing  on  the  poop,  and  bending,  she 
held  the  paper  to  its  smoky  light  and  read  as 
follows : 

"Fear  nothing.  I  give  you  God-speed  and 
Berthe,  my  Brabantine  lace  woman,  for  escort. 
She  is  faithful  though  speechless.  Trust  your 
friends.  No  harm  can  befall  you.  M.  L." 

"Then  Lady  Margaret  is  not  here!"  cried 
Delme'  in  keen  disappointment;  then  seeing 
that  the  brig  was  slipping  slowly  down  the 
channel  to  the  sea  and  the  sailors  busy  letting 
out  full  sail,  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

Berthe,  the  Brabant  lace  worker,  a  kind, 
careful  creature,  led  her  without  further 
speech  to  a  small  cabin,  cheerfully  lighted, 
cosily  furnished,  and  provided  with  two  sleep- 


OVER   HARBLEDOWN       305 

ing  berths  of  immaculate  cleanliness.  Berthe 
instantly  set  out  on  a  small  table  a  tray  bear 
ing  food  and  wine  of  the  most  delicate  sort  and 
pressed  Delme'  to  refresh  herself.  She  was 
met  with  a  storm  of  impetuous  questions,  none 
of  which  she  was  able  to  understand  or  answer, 
as  Delme'  had  the  sense  quickly  to  perceive. 
The  girl  darted  up  the  steep  companionway  to 
the  deck,  where  she  found  a  sailor  to  whom 
she  spoke.  He  only  shook  his  head  and  mur 
mured  a  few  words  in  a  language  strange  to 
her,  which  she  recognized  as  Dutch,  however. 
He  pointed  to  a  seaman  buttoned  up  in  oil 
skins,  who  stood  by  the  pilot,  and  indicated 
that  he  was  the  brig's  captain.  With  strong 
self-control  Delme'  steadied  her  voice  and  ad 
dressed  him  with  her  questions,  Where  were 
they  bound?  Where  was  Major  Unwin?  What 
did  it  all  mean? 

The  Captain  bowed  with  utmost  respect,  a 
hearty  smile  on  his  honest  weather-beaten 
face  for  the  pretty,  distressed  lady,  but  could 
neither  understand  nor  speak  a  word  of  Eng 
lish  or  French.  The  wind  was  rising  now  to 
a  small  gale,  bringing  cutting  sleet,  and  flout- 


306  PROSPER 


ing  Beimels  clothes  in  such  fashion  that  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  below  to  her  cabin, 
which  struck  her  on  second  view  as  mightily 
bright,  warm,  and  inviting. 

Berthe  now  removed  her  hood  and  cloak 
with  light  dexterous  fingers,  then  unfastened 
and  slipped  off  her  gown,  bringing  forth  from 
a  small  travelling  chest  a  luxurious  dressing- 
robe  of  quilted  crimson  satin,  which  Delme'  in 
stantly  recognized  as  belonging  to  her  beloved 
Lady  Margaret  Ley.  This  discovery,  combined 
with  the  caressing  contact  of  the  glowing 
satin,  produced  a  swift,  indescribable  change 
in  the  girl's  mood.  It  was  like  the  touch  of 
her  noble  old  friend's  hand  upon  her.  From 
terrified  protest  and  fierce,  baffled  fury  she 
surrendered  to  a  sense  of  a  child's  enjoyment 
of  a  scene  in  a  pantomime  or  of  a  fairy  tale,  in 
which,  by  some  strange  jugglery,  she  had  chief 
part  to  play.  Though  all  was  mystery,  it  wras 
plainly  a  genial  and  a  kindly  mystery.  Why 
not  yield  herself  then  to  a  situation  she  could 
not  control,  and  gain  what  pleasure  it  held 
for  her? 

Berthe   was   quick   to   feel   the   change   in 


OVER   HARBLEDOWN       307 

Delink,  and  responded  with  infectious  gaiety. 
Having  stripped  her  icy  little  feet  of  their 
damp  coverings  she  warmed  them  in  her  soft 
hands,  then  dressed  them  in  red  silk  stock 
ings  and  slippers  adorned  with  big  red  roses, 
which  she  brought  out  from  the  travelling 
chest. 

Thus  luxuriously  fitted  forth,  Delme'  turned 
with  quickening  appetite  to  the  tray  awaiting 
her,  and  ate  and  drank  with  a  will ;  which  over 
she  allowed  Berthe  to  undress  her  and  tuck 
her  neatly  into  one  of  the  berths.  All  the 
while  the  small  waves  under  the  brig's  keel 
seemed  growing  larger  with  a  rising  rhythm  of 
motion.  Delme'  fell  asleep  with  a  sense  that 
they  were  passing  into  the  open  sea,  a  sense 
which  brought  no  terror  now  but  a  mysterious 
satisfaction.  Was  she  destined  to  break  the 
narrow  bounds  which  had  hemmed  life  in  for 
her  of  late  and  come  into  some  strange  new 
power  and  freedom?  And  Prosper — what  was 
his  part  in  it  all,  and  where  was  he?  and  could 
she  ever  forgive  him? 

All  night,  as  the  brig  plunged  up  and  down 
the  waves,  Delink  fancied  herself  galloping 


308  PROSPER 


madly  over  Harbledown,  with  Prosper  in  the 
saddle  before  her.  But  he  would  not  turn  his 
head  or  speak  to  her,  which,  on  her  frequent 
waking,  disturbed  her  more  than  did  the  un 
certainty  of  her  mysterious  journey. 


XXII 
"MONSIEUR  MY  NEPHEW 

A1  sunset,  of  the  day  following,  Delme', 
leaning  on  the  brig's  bulwark,  saw 
through  a  curtain  of  fog  a  sea  wall  rising 
abruptly  and  beyond  a  row  of  curious  crenel 
ated  gables  and  sugar-loaf  towers. 

"What  is  the  town?"  she  asked  of  the  Cap 
tain,  her  pointed  finger  and  inflection  indicat 
ing  her  meaning. 

"Vlissingen,"  was  the  reply. 

Delme'  sighed.  This  did  not  fit  her  notion; 
she  had  hoped  for  Calais  or  Ostend,  having 
it  now  contrived  in  her  imagination  that  Lady 
Margaret  Ley  was  in  France  for  reasons  un 
known  and  had  sent  for  her  to  keep  her  com 
pany. 

It  was  dark  when  they  landed.  Delme' 
awaited  developments  with  intensely  eager 
curiosity,  but  no  longer  with  terror.  If  Pros 
per  had  only  come  on  the  boat  and  were  by 

309 


310  PROSPER 


her  side,  she  felt  that  this  whole  adventure 
would  be  full  of  zest.  But  Prosper  had  for 
saken  her.  Several  liveried  servants  took 
courteous  but  positive  possession  of  her  and 
Berthe  the  moment  they  set  foot  on  land ;  they 
were  placed  in  a  handsome  coach  with  the 
travelling  chest,  and  driven  off  at  a  rapid 
pace,  an  unseen  mounted  attendant  closely 
following. 

Whither?  Delme'  had  no  faintest  guess. 
There  was  a  small  window  in  the  side  of  the 
coach  through  which  she  gazed  greedily,  but 
the  dark,  low-lying  fields  through  which  they 
passed  gave  no  sign,  only  the  frequent  wind 
mills  suggested  the  Fen  country  and  the  ques 
tion,  Was  it  English  soil  or  Dutch  on  which 
they  were  landed? 

After  an  hour's  fast  driving  the  coach 
turned  in  at  a  tall  iron  gateway,  where  mas 
sive  stone  posts  rising  high  were  crowned  by 
heraldic  griffins,  as  Delme'  could  make  out  by 
the  light  from  the  lodge  windows.  Here  the 
sound  of  horse's  hoofs  following  ceased  sud 
denly.  They  rolled  down  a  long  avenue  be 
tween  rows  of  tall  Lombardy  poplars  and 


"MONSIEUR  MY  NEPHEW  311 

drew  up  before  an  imposing  facade,  brightly 
lighted.  Doors  were  flung  open  into  a  stately 
hall,  whence  broad  shallow  marble  stairs  cov 
ered  over  with  an  Oriental  tapestry  led  to  re 
gions  above.  Delink  had  a  confused  impres 
sion  of  many  liveried  servants,  all  in  black, 
going  before  and  after,  and  of  a  matronly 
woman  who  met  them  with  mute  welcome  at 
the  stairhead ;  then  of  an  endless  labyrinth  of 
galleries  hung  with  portraits.  At  last  all  the 
bewildering  turns  came  to  an  end.  She  and 
Berthe  faced  each  other,  breathless  and  won- 
derstruck,  in  a  spacious  tapestried  chamber, 
and  the  door  was  shut.  Berthe  broke  out  into 
a  succession  of  rapid  guttural  notes  of  admira 
tion  and  excitement,  while  Delme'  sank  into  a 
low  cushioned  chair  drawn  up  before  a  cheer 
ful  fire.  The  room  was  luxurious  in  the  ex 
treme,  with  a  certain  festal,  even  bridal  ex 
pression;  all  the  toilette  appointments  were 
fit  for  a  princess,  the  inlaid  bedstead  was 
draped  with  costly  lace,  while  jars  of  Provence 
roses  on  either  side  of  the  white  marble  chim 
ney-piece  added  their  fragrance  to  a  scene  of 
appealing  charm. 


312  PROSPER 


Delmd  studied  her  surroundings,  marvelling 
much.  Soon  she  rose  and  threw  open  a  case 
ment  to  search  for  some  clue  from  without  by 
which  to  interpret  her  situation.  She  could 
dimly  distinguish,  stretching  away  from  the 
house,  an  ancient,  formal  garden  of  large  ex 
tent  with  strange  shapes  of  clipped  shrubbery, 
and  successive  pleasances  and  terraces  capped 
by  marble  balustrades.  Beyond  rose  great 
forest  trees,  as  if  the  garden  were  encircled  by 
a  park.  While  she  stood  at  the  window  a 
knock  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  on  Berthe's 
opening  it  a  lackey  announced  in  French  with 
no  small  formality  that  his  Lordship  would 
receive  Mademoiselle  at  nine  o'clock. 

"His  Lordship!"  cried  Delme'  when  the  door 
was  shut.  "And  who  in  Heaven's  name  may 
his  Lordship  be?  If  it  had  been  her  Ladyship, 
my  heart  at  last  would  be  at  rest.  But  at  least 
it  is  something  to  hear  French  spoken  and  to 
have  reason  to  think  the  hour  of  cclaircisse- 
ment  draws  nigh." 

By  signs  she  conveyed  to  Berthe  the  neces 
sity  for  some  change  from  the  blue  woollen 
gown  in  which  she  had  made  her  journey. 


"MONSIEUR   MY  NEPHEW  313 

It  became  clear  to  Delink  that  Lady  Margaret 
must  have  prepared  definitely  for  an  event  like 
this  when  Berthe  now  brought  out  from  the 
chest  an  exquisite  girlish  costume  of  white 
satin,  bearing  the  imprint  of  a  house  of  the 
highest  fashion  in  London  and  fitting  her  per 
fectly.  A  small  detail,  which  gave  her  a 
haunting  perplexity  where  all  was  baffling, 
was  added  when  Berthe  laid  upon  the  dressing 
table  Delinks  own  modest  jewel-box.  This 
could  have  come  into  the  woman's  hands  only 
by  the  connivance  with  Lady  Margaret  of  her 
Aunt  Marie  Unwin.  What  could  it  all  mean? 
she  sighed  despairingly  as  she  clasped  the  fili 
gree  necklace  in  its  place. 

^Refreshment  having  been  served  them  by 
servants  speechless,  but  otherwise  irreproach 
able,  Delmd  proceeded  to  the  serious  business 
of  her  toilette.  Nine  o'clock  struck  in  the  hall 
below  and  found  her  pacing  the  floor  of  her 
chamber  with  restless  steps,  clad  in  the  lus 
trous  satin,  her  hair  brushed  up  from  her  low 
forehead  and  falling  in  small  curls  on  her 
temples  after  the  latest  fashion,  her  eyes  bril 
liant  with  almost  uncontrollable  excitement. 


314  PROSPER 


The  French-speaking  lackey  appeared 
promptly  and  conducted  her  through  devious 
ways  to  a  closed  door  where  a  man  in  deep 
mourning,  apparently  a  kind  of  major-domo, 
stood,  evidently  awaiting  her  coining.  This 
personage  saluted  her  in  French  with  utmost 
respect,  addressing  her  to  her  intense  surprise 
as  Mademoiselle  Delon.  As  he  opened  the 
door,  he  said  in  an  undertone: 

"Have  no  fear.  You  will  find  his  Lordship 
easy  to  talk  with.  One  does  not  ask  him  ques 
tions,"  he  added  significantly;  "that  is  all. 

Otherwise "  and  he  smiled  as  needing  to 

say  no  more. 

Delme'  now  found  herself  at  the  foot  of  a 
room  of  impressive  dimensions.  Midway  the 
length  of  it  rose  an  enormous  chimney.  From 
the  wall  just  beyond  the  chimney  there  ex 
tended,  at  right  angles,  a  tall  Gothic  screen 
of  carved  oak  of  magnificent  workmanship. 
Enclosed  by  this  screen  and  thus  shielded 
from  the  draughts  which  might  reach  other 
parts  of  the  room,  stood  an  armchair  in  which 
sat  an  old  man,  clad  in  deepest  black,  with  a 
face  as  white  as  marble.  On  one  side  of  him 


"MONSIEUR  MY  NEPHEW  315 

stood  an  attendant  in  the  garb  of  a  Spanish 
Jesuit;  on  the  other  a  physician,  as  Delme' 
judged  by  the  solicitous  attention  he  bestowed 
upon  the  lord  of  the  castle. 

That  the  old  man  was  her  host  and  lord  of 
the  castle  Delme'  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt, 
and  that  he  was  an  almost  helpless  invalid  she 
immediately  perceived. 

The  sense  strong  upon  her  that  she  was  be 
ing  presented  at  some  small  species  of  court 
in  which  strict  etiquette  prevailed,  Delm6, 
standing  before  his  Lordship,  swept  her  deep 
est  courtesy,  her  eyes  full  of  grave  wonder. 
There  was  reverence  in  them  for  his  age,  but 
no  fear  for  himself  or  his  station. 

Evidently  her  composure  pleased  the  master 
of  the  house,  for  he  smiled  slightly  as  he  ex 
tended  his  hand,  which  Delme'  kissed.  He  said 
in  French  kindly,  "So  this  is  Mademoiselle 
Delrne'  Delon." 

Again  her  father's  name,  which  she  had  not 
heard  in  many  years!  Were  they  then  in 
Lille  perchance,  whence  Vital  Delon  had  fled 
to  England?  If  she  but  dared  to  ask! 

"At  your  service,  my  lord." 


316  PROSPER 


"Be  seated,  I  beg.  I  hope  your  voyage  has 
been  comfortable." 

"Thank  you.     Entirely  so." 

Delme'  took  the  offered  chair. 

"Was  the  cabin  all  that  it  should  have  been? 
the  food?  the  wine?"  The  old  man's  eyes, 
which  seemed  the  only  living  thing  about  him, 
searched  her  face  as  if  with  keenest  solicitude. 
Delme'  answered  respectfully  in  the  affirma 
tive,  whereupon  a  long  series  of  similar  ques 
tions  followed,  covering  every  stage  of  the 
journey,  save  the  ride  from  Canterbury  to  the 
unknown  port  of  departure.  Delme'  wished 
chance  might  be  given  her  to  touch  upon  the 
astounding  features  of  that  episode,  but  it  was 
not. 

At  length,  with  a  slight  wave  of  his  slender, 
bloodless  fingers,  his  Lordship  remarked  with 
stately  courtesy: 

"I  regret  extremely  that  Mademoiselle 
should  have  been  put  to  the  inconvenience  of 
such  a  journey  at  this  inclement  season,  but 
it  is  the  custom  of  our  family  which  made  it 
necessary.  Our  brides  always  come  to  us. 
You  will  learn  our  customs  easily  with  a  little 


"MONSIEUR   MY  NEPHEW"  317 

time ;  our  language  you  will  find  more  difficult, 
but  you  will  be  expected  to  learn  it.  Thank 
Heaven,  your  French  is  perfect!" 

"Our  language!"  thought  Delrne'.  "What 
then  may  it  be?"  but  dared  not  ask  aloud,  nor 
yet  what  connection  the  family  custom  as  re 
garded  brides  had  with  her.  Perhaps  he  fan 
cied  a  shade  of  demur  in  her  expression,  for 
he  said  further: 

"Monsieur's  bride  should  by  all  means  speak 
the  language  of  his  people." 

The  physician,  from  his  place  behind  the  old 
man's  chair,  observed  the  swift  paling  of 
Delinks  cheeks.  The  Jesuit  was  busy  with  his 
breviary,  his  eyes  downcast. 

"The  wedding  will  take  place  at  noon  to 
morrow,"  the  old  lord  continued,  "If  it  suit 
Mademoiselle.  It  is  a  matter  of  importance 
to  me  that  it  occur  on  Christmas  Day.  Despite 
the  unfortunate  circumstance  that  you  are 
both  Huguenot,  the  marriage  will  be  cele 
brated  in  the  family  chapel.  Upon  this  I 
must  insist.  I  have  sent,  unwillingly  enough 
as  you  may  believe,  for  a  Dominie  from 
Middleburg." 


318  PROSPER 

At  this  point  the  physician  leaned  over  and 
spoke  to  his  Lordship  in  an  undertone  at  some 
length.  The  old  man  tapped  his  chair  arm 
nervously,  winked  rapidly,  then  turning  again 
to  Delrne',  who  was  now  astonished  beyond 
power  of  speech,  he  remarked : 

"I  am  reminded  by  my  doctor  that  the  last 
touch  has  not  been  laid  to  the  preliminary 
formalities.  Perhaps  I  move  forward  too 
rapidly  for  Mademoiselle.  Monsieur  has  not 
yet  received  your  final  'yes.'  That  is  true. 
My  memory  has  grown  a  trifle  weak  as  con 
cerns  small  details.  I  suppose  there  can  be 
no  obstacle,"  he  added  with  a  touch  of  impa 
tience,  and  again  his  eyes  searched  Delinks 
agitated  face  imperiously.  "You  have  seen  my 
nephew,  and  could  hardly  ask  a  finer  husband. 
He  is  my  heir,  you  perceive, — not  a  bad 
parti" 

"There  is  some  mistake,  my  lord,"  cried 
Delme',  far  beyond  scruples  of  etiquette  now; 
"I  have  been  brought  here  under  some  strange 
delusion — I  have  never  seen  your  nephew.  It 
will  be  impossible  for  me  to  marry  him." 

"Are  you  not  the  daughter  of  Vital  Delon, 


"MONSIEUR   MY  NEPHEW  '  319 

a  Huguenot  preacher  of  Lille?  Is  not  An- 
thoine  Unwin  of  Canterbury  your  uncle?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  and  Delme'  stared  at  him 
as  if  transfixed. 

"Very  well,"  he  commented  serenely.  "It 
is  as  I  supposed.  There  is  no  mistake.  Now, 
as  regards  the  wedding  to-morrow : — I  suggest 
your  wearing  the  gown  you  wear  to-night, 
Mademoiselle  Delrne';  it  suits  you  excellently. 
Monsieur  really  has  good  taste.  You  are  quite 
the  patrician." 

"But,  my  lord,"  said  Delme',  rising  and 
stepping  nearer  to  his  chair,  fixing  upon  him 
her  eyes,  which  fairly  blazed  now  with  excite 
ment,  "I  cannot  marry  Monsieur  your 
nephew  to-morrow,  I  beg  you  to  understand. 
It  is  impossible!"  and  she  stamped  her  foot 
in  unconscious  emphasis. 

"And  why?"  asked  the  old  lord,  plainly 
amused  rather  than  displeased  by  her 
defiance.  "Do  you  wish  to  marry  another 
man?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  she  answered  firmly,  her 
cheeks  growing  scarlet,  "it  is  true.  I  wish — to 
marry " 


320  PROSPER 


"Whom,  then?" 

"My  cousin,  Prosper  Unwin." 

"Has  Prosper  Unwin  asked  you  to  marry 
him?"  His  Lordship  was  growing  downright 
merry  over  Beimels  blushing  confusion. 

"Not  of  late,  but " 

"But  you  think  he  will — if  properly  en- 
eouraged?" 

"I  hope  so,  although  I  am  very  angry  with 
him  at  this  moment — 

A  sound  of  knocking  on  the  panels  of  the 
screen  behind  the  armchair  startled  Delme', 
and  the  words  died  upon  her  lips. 

"Ah!  Monsieur  my  nephew,"  commented, 
or  rather  announced,  the  old  lord  coolly, 
"Entrez,  Monsieur." 

Upon  this,  Prosper  Unwin,  in  court  cos 
tume  of  black,  advanced  from  cover  of  the 
screen,  bowed  ceremoniously  to  his  Lordship, 
then  sank  on  one  knee  at  Beimels  feet. 

The  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  was  too 
great  for  the  girl's  composure,  for,  as  Prosper 
rose  and  held  out  his  arms,  her  head  dropped 
upon  his  shoulder  and  she  burst  into  tears, 
heedless  of  the  gently  satirical  yet  sympa- 


"MONSIEUR  MY  NEPHEW"  321 

thetic  gaze  of  the  Master  of  the  house  and  his 
attendants. 

The  first  question  Delme'  could  articulate, 
Prosper  wiping  away  her  tears  the  while  with 
anxious  tenderness,  was: 

"Where  is  Lady  Margaret?" 

"In  London,  Deline",  but  it  is  by  her  advice 
and  help  that  you  are  here  and  with  her  bless 
ing  and  that  of  both  our  families  that  you 
marry  me  to-morrow,  an'  so  you  will." 

"Prosper,  why  did  you  leave  me  to  come 
alone  from  England?  Why  did  you  desert 
me?"  and  Delme'  held  him  off,  her  eyes  dark 
with  reproach. 

"Because  you  were  too  angry  with  me  when 
we  reached  Queenborough,  lady-love.  I  feared 
you  would  say  things  you  could  never  unsay 
after,  for  you  had  a  right  to  be  angry.  You 
were  horribly  ill-treated." 

"Oh,  I  was!    How  can  I  ever  forgive  you?" 

"I  will  show  you.  But  you  are  wrong  in 
thinking  I  deserted  you.  I  watched  over  every 
breath  you  drew  on  the  sea  last  night." 

"But,  Prosper " 

"I  took  care  you  did  not  see  me.     Berthe 


322  PROSPER 


knows  whether  I  stood  guard  at  your  door  till 
daylight." 

"It  must  have  been  weary  work." 

"Oh,  no.  I  got  my  pay  on  the  spot.  Do  you 
remember  that  sometime  in  the  small  hours 
you  drew  a  long,  long  sigh  and  said  quite  dis 
tinctly,  'Oh,  Prosper,  I  could  bear  anything  if 
you  had  but  stayed'?" 

"I  must  have  spoken  in  my  sleep !  But  tell 
me,  dear,  if  you  can,  why  you  took  such  a  wild, 
wild  way  to  woo  me?" 

"Because  I  had  set  out  to  win  this  time  and 
had  no  mind  to  be  defeated.  As  all  gentle 
means  had  failed,  stern  ones  alone  were  left 
me.  Remember,  Delme',  that  you  were  fret 
ting  your  very  life  away  in  a  sick  dream.  I 
dared  to  hope  that  if  I  had  power  to  rouse  you 
from  that  dream  you  would  not  longer  have 
power  to  resist  my  love.  Was  I  right?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  musingly;  "you  were  right 
since  I  had  burned  the  sonnet." 

A  puzzled  question  on  Prosper's  lips  was 
interrupted  by  the  voice  of  the  Master  of  the 
house.  The  lovers,  who  had  forgotten  that 
they  were  not  alone,  turned  reverentially  to 


"MONSIEUR  MY  NEPHEW  323 

the  old  man,  in  whom  Deluxe"  now  discerned  a 
slight  resemblance  to  the  sturdy,  ruddy  An- 
thoine  Unwin. 

"To-morrow,  at  high  noon,"  his  Lordship  an 
nounced  with  some  show  of  courtly  formality, 
"the  marriage  of  Jonkheer  Prosper  Onwhyn, 
nephew  and  heir  of  the  Heer  van  Bersele,  with 
Mademoiselle  Delme'  Delon,  will  be  solem 
nized  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Seigniory  of  Ber 
sele,  on  the  Island  of  Walcheren,  in  the  Dutch 
Province  of  Zeeland!" 

"At  last  I  know  where  I  am,"  murmured 
Delm£  to  Prosper,  "and  who  you  are!" 


Across  the  midwinter  welter  of  the  North 
Sea,  in  the  narrow  London  house  sat  Eng 
land's  lordliest  Commoner,  an  alien  among 
those  of  his  owrn  household  that  Christmas  eve. 

In  brooding  solitude  of  spirit,  though  forced 
to  company  closely  and  continually  with  those 
most  wearisome  to  him,  conjoined  by  accident 
or  the  tie  of  law,  John  Milton  was  set  to  learn 
to  quench  his  soul's  thirst  at  unseen  springs 
and  to  feed  his  heart's  hunger  on  things  and 


324  PROSPER 

thoughts  divine,  earthly  joy  and  love  being 
denied  him.  For  his  was  the  mind  not  to  be 
changed  by  place  or  time,  the  mind  which  is 
its  own  place  and  in  itself  can  make  a  heaven 
of  hell. 


BOOK  VI 
SIX  YEARS  AFTER 


"  Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  ev'n  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine ; 
But  cloud  instead  and  ever-during  dai'k 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 

Cutoff 

So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 

Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  pow'rs 

Irradiate,  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 

Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 

Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight." 


XXIII 

THE  LATIN  SECRETARY 

ON  Tuesday,  January  the  thirtieth,  in 
the  year  1649,  Charles  Stuart,  accom 
panied  by  his  chaplain,  made  sad  proces 
sion  from  St.  James's  to  Whitehall  through 
the  Park.  Arrived  at  the  Palace  he  was  led 
through  various  galleries  to  the  royal  bed 
chamber  and  there  suffered  to  rest  for  a  space 
for  private  devotion  and  for  the  strengthening 
of  his  soul  for  that  which  was  to  come.  This 
was  in  the  morning.  At  noon,  a  signal  being 
heard  outside,  the  King  met  the  guard  of  sol 
diers  awaiting  him  and  passed  to  the  grand 
Banqueting  Hall,  many  men  and  women 
crowding  into  the  galleries  to  wratch  his  prog 
ress  with  grave  and  piteous  faces. 

A  passage  having  been  broken  through  one 
of  the  Banqueting  Hall  windows  for  the  pur 
pose  the  King  emerged  on  a  scaffold  in  the 
open  street  and,  after  addressing  the  mass  of 

327 


S28          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

people  gathered  on  the  housetops  and  in  the 
spaces  below,  laid  his  head  upon  the  block 
with  much  dignity,  composure,  and  fortitude 
and  so  met  his  death,  according  to  the  sentence 
of  the  High  Court  of  Commissioners. 

In  the  afternoon  of  that  same  Tuesday,  the 
House  of  Commons,  by  the  Sergeant-at-Arms, 
accompanied  by  pursuivants,  announced  at 
Cheapside  that  whoever  caused  "the  proclaim 
ing  of  any  person  to  be  King  of  England" 
would  be  deemed  a  traitor,  thus  declaring 
England  to  be  no  longer  a  Kingdom  but  a 
Commonwealth.  A  week  later  it  was  re 
solved:  "That  the  House  of  Peers  in  Parlia 
ment  is  useless  and  dangerous,  and  ought  to 
be  abolished,  and  that  an  Act  be  brought  in  to 
that  purpose."  After  long  debate  it  was  fur 
ther  found  that  "The  office  of  a  King  in  this 
realm  ...  is  unnecessary,  burdensome,  and 
dangerous  to  the  liberty,  safety,  and  public  in 
terest  of  the  People  of  this  nation,  and  there 
fore  ought  to  be  abolished,  and  that  an  Act 
be  brought  in  to  that  purpose." 

For  the  time  being  authority  was  vested  in 
the  fragment  which  remained  of  the  Long 


The  LATIN  SECRETARY     329 

Parliament,  but  the  real  centre  of  power 
was  the  Council  of  State  that  very  day 
created. 

On  the  seventh  day  of  February,  1649,  Eng 
land  became  a  Republic. 

Ten  days  passed  and  the  new  republican 
Council,  consisting  of  forty-one  lords  and 
commoners,  held  its  first  meeting  in 
Derby  House,  Westminster,  Lieutenant-Gen- 
eral  Oliver  Cromwell  in  the  chair.  Soon  after 
the  meetings  of  the  Council  were  transferred 
to  Whitehall  and  instructions  were  given  that 
members  who  desired  it  should  have  lodging 
in  the  Palace. 

On  Tuesday,  the  thirteenth  of  March,  John 
Bradshaw,  Head  of  the  Court  of  Commission 
ers,  having  been  chosen  permanent  chairman 
of  the  Council  under  the  designation  "Lord 
President  Bradshaw,"  as  items  of  business  re 
corded  in  the  Order  Book  were  the  following 
resolutions : 

First,  "That  Mr.  Whitlocke,  Sir  Harry  Vane 
and  (four  others)  be  appointed  a  Committee 
to  consider  what  alliances  this  Crown  hath 
formerly  had  with  Foreign  States  and  what 


330          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

those  States  are.  .  .  .  Second,  That  it  be  re 
ferred  to  the  former  Committee  to  speak  with 
Mr.  John  Milton,  to  know  whether  he  will 
be  employed  as  Secretary  for  the  Foreign 
Tongues  and  to  report  at  the  Council." 

On  Thursday,  John  Milton  was  formally  ap 
pointed  Secretary  for  Foreign  Tongues  to  the 
Council,  and  on  the  same  day  Oliver  Cromwell 
was  made  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Army. 
His  immediate  work  would  lie  in  Ireland  and 
thither  he  departed  shortly  after,  leaving  Lon 
don  with  great  magnificence  of  state,  his  coach 
drawn  by  six  horses,  and  he  bearing  the  par 
ticular  title  of  Lord-General  and  Governor  of 
Ireland. 

On  March  twentieth,  John  Milton  took  the 
oath  of  secrecy  administered  to  such  as  acted 
as  secretaries,  was  introduced  to  the  Council 
of  State,  and  given  his  seat.  His  first  work 
was  the  translation  into  Latin  of  certain  let 
ters  to  the  Senate  of  Hamburg.  Latin,  here 
tofore  in  use  to  some  extent  in  the  intercourse 
of  England  with  foreign  nations,  was  adopted 
by  the  new  Commonwealth  as  the  medium  of 
diplomatic  correspondence,  and  Milton  was 


The  LATIN  SECRETARY     331 

usually  known  as  "the  Latin  Secretary."  His 
nephew  Edward  Phillips  wrote  of  the  Coun 
cil  in  this  regard  that  they  "stuck  to  this  noble 
and  generous  resolution,  not  to  write  to  any 
or  receive  answers  from  them,  but  in  a  lan 
guage  the  most  proper  to  maintain  a  corre 
spondence  among  the  learned  of  all  nations  in 
this  part  of  the  world,  scorning  to  carry  on 
their  affairs  in  the  wheedling,  lisping  jargon 
of  the  cringing  French,  especially  having  a; 
Minister  of  State  able  to  cope  with  the  ablest 
any  Prince  or  State  could  employ  for  the 
Latin  tongue." 

Not  only  were  the  new  Secretary's  un 
equalled  qualifications  employed  in  State  cor 
respondence,  but  literary  tasks  of  highest  im 
portance  in  the  interests  of  the  Common 
wealth  were  from  the  day  of  his  induction  into 
office  heaped  upon  him.  As  soon  as  circum 
stances  permitted  chambers  for  residence  for 
himself  and  his  family  were  assigned  Milton 
in  Whitehall  Palace.  Thus  the  poet  found  him 
self  transported  from  the  obscure  scholastic 
retirement  of  his  previous  life  in  London  to 
the  very  centre  of  highest  political  activity  at 


332          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

Westminster,  in  the  crucial  hour  of  founding 
a  new  state. 


It  was  a  spring  morning  in  the  year  1651. 

Into  the  north  court  of  Whitehall,  known 
as  Scotland  Yard,  through  the  gateway  upon 
the  open  thoroughfare  which  ran  through  the 
Palace  precincts  from  Charing  Cross  to  WTest- 
minster,  a  coach  was  driven.  The  coachman 
and  footman  wore  mulberry-coloured  livery, 
and  above  the  blazon  on  the  doors  of  the  coach 
appeared  a  small  coronet. 

The  court  in  which  the  coach  now  drew  up 
was  one  of  the  lesser  in  the  intricate  series  of 
courts  belonging  to  the  vast  labyrinth  of 
Whitehall.  It  wras  surrounded  by  gabled 
brick  buildings  with  connecting  galleries,  pas 
sages,  and  staircases  indicating  the  endless, 
tortuous  succession  of  snug  chambers  in  which 
the  Government  and  Palace  officials  with  their 
families  were  transiently  or  permanently  ac 
commodated. 

At  the  opposite  side  of  the  court  from  its 
entrance,  at  the  foot  of  a  broad  and  shallow 


The  LATIN  SECRETARY     333 

stair,  a  newel-post  bore,  framed,  a  small 
placard  on  which  was  printed  "Sir  John  Hip- 
pesley,  knt.,  M.P."  This  inscription  had  been 
crossed  out  with  a  pen  and  below  was  writ 
ten,  "Mr.  John  Milton,  Secretary  for  the 
Foreign  Tongues."  Above  this  staircase,  in  a 
second-story  window  stood  a  woman  in 
widow's  cap  and  homely  gown  of  duffle  grey, 
looking  through  the  small  leaded  panes  down 
into  the  court.  It  was  Mistress  Powell, 
widow  of  Kichard  Powell,  Esquire,  late  of 
Forest  Hill,  Oxford,  deceased  in  London  in 
the  year  1647.  The  dame's  once  comely  face 
and  active  figure  showed  painfully  the  ravages 
of  poverty,  loss,  and  ceaseless  anxiety;  her 
countenance  was  unpleasantly  sharpened  and 
her  florid  skin  thick  sown  with  lines  of  care,  so 
that  she  appeared  far  beyond  her  fifty  years. 
In  her  arms,  with  the  easy  carelessness  of  long 
practice,  Dame  Powell  held  a  new-born  infant 
wrapped  closely  in  folds  of  soft  flannel.  The 
room  in  which  she  stood  was  furnished  as  a 
handsome  parlour ;  its  lofty  ceiling  and  richly- 
carved  chimney  gave  an  impression  of  stately 
dignity  with  which  the  dame's  rustic  and  un- 


334          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

graceful  figure  ill  accorded.  Beside  the  chim 
ney  a  door  stood  open  into  a  silent  and  closely- 
darkened  room. 

Suddenly  Dame  Powell,  whose  acute  curi 
osity  indicated  that  she  was  unaccustomed  to 
her  present  surroundings,  spoke  in  a  sharp, 
unmodulated  voice  from  her  place  by  the  win 
dow. 

"Mary,"  she  called,  "has  my  lady  Margaret 
Ley  mulberry-coloured  livery  now,  do  you 
know,  to  her  coachmen?" 

An  indistinct  murmur  from  beyond  the  open 
door  was  the  only  response. 

"Sure  it  used  to  be  green  if  I'm  not  mis 
taken,  yet  do  the  horses  look  familiar,  and 
I'm  bound  that  coachman  is  the  one  used  to 
come  so  oft  to  the  Barbican." 

The  dame  broke  off  speaking  to  gaze  more 
intently  through  the  diamond-shaped  window 
panes,  then  ran  on  again  in  monologue 
fashion,  albeit  her  comments  were  intended 
for  her  daughter's  ears. 

"But  there's  no  sign  of  Lady  Margaret  her 
self,  now  they're  getting  out,  nor  the  Captain, 
and  on  my  honour  they're  looking  this  way, 


The  LATIN  SECRETARY    335 

and  the  yeoman  of  the  guard  is  pointing 
straight  to  the  stair  below." 

"Do  come  away  from  the  window,  mother,  I 
want  no  visitors,  Heaven  knows !" 

It  was  Mary  Milton's  voice,  faint  and  fret 
ful,  from  the  inner  room. 

"Be  quiet.  I  know  enough  to  keep  myself 
out  of  sight.  Upon  my  word  I  wish  you  could 
have  a  look  at  this  lady!  She's  just  out  of 
the  coach  and  for  all  the  world  like  a  queen 
or  some  of  the  great  Court  ladies  that  used 
to  be  getting  out  of  their  coaches  no  doubt, 
Molly,  on  that  very  spot  when  his  blessed 
Majesty  was  alive,  and  such  gentry  as  we 
knew  better  than  to  take  the  place  of  the  no 
bility  in  Whitehall.  A  beauty  she  is,  I  declare, 
though  I  have  to  guess  at  her  features,  her 
veil  being  down.  All  in  a  sea-blue  satin,  most 
gallant, — coat  and  bonnet  alike  with  the  gown 
and  sleeves  of  lace  such  as  I  never  set  eyes 
on!" 

"It  must  be  Lady  Margaret."  The  voice 
from  the  inner  room  betrayed  a  touch  of  lan 
guid,  half-impatient  interest. 

"Lady  Margaret!    I  wish  you  could  see  for 


336          SIX  YEARS  AFTER 

yourself!  'Tis  a  young,  graceful  creature,  as 
slim  and  pliant-like  as  a  fawn,  and  the  way 
she  carries  herself, — really,  say  what  you  will, 
it's  but  once  in  a  long  while  you  see  the  qual 
ity  with  that  true  high-born  air!  There's  a 
child  with  her,  a  little  lad  of  five  or  six,  and 
a  nurse  or  some  such  person.  The  child  is  of 
a  prince-like  shape,  but  dressed  oddly,  quite 
the  foreigner  seemingly  by  his  look." 

"Do  tell  me  they're  not  coming  here,  mother, 
whoever  they  are.  What  do  I  care  how  grand 
they  may  be!" 

"Nay,  I  think  not,  though  the  lady  is  for  a 
certainty  walking  this  way  and  has  her  eyes 
on  the  name-card  at  the  stair.  But,  good 
lack!  the  Council  must  be  done  its  meeting, 
for  there  comes  Mr.  Milton  in  from  the  great 
Court  this  minute  and  Sir  Harry  Vane  with 
him,  and  the  lady  has  left  off  looking  this  way. 
Now  she  is  turning  to  right-about  and  moving 
across  the  pavement  towards  the  two  of  them. 
They  notice  her  no\v  and  they're  in  a  great 
taking!  'Tis  hats  off  and  great  homage  they 
pay  her,  you  can  believe  me,  whoever  she  be! 
Now  his  little  lordship  is  brought  up  and 


The  LATIN  SECRETARY     337 

gives  his  hand  very  prettily,  and  your  hus 
band  bends  low  and  searches  the  child's  face, 
poor  man,  not  being  well  able  to  discern  it 
otherwise." 

"Who  can  it  be?" 

Piercing  curiosity  gave  a  sudden  shrillness 
to  Mary  Milton's  voice. 

Glancing  back  through  the  open  door,  her 
mother  saw  that  she  lifted  herself  on  one  el 
bow,  then  sank  back  weakly  on  her  pillows. 
There  was  silence  for  a  moment;  then,  in  a 
faint  voice,  came  the  words : 

"My  own  little  son  is  fine  enough  for  me. 
Do,  granny,  bring  the  baby  and  lay  him  where 
I  can  see  his  little  face.  You  make  my  head 
ache  never  so  with  all  this  tiresome  chatter." 

"Wait  a  bit ;  wait  a  bit,"  was  the  dame's  re 
sponse  to  her  daughter's  petition.  "I  must 
stop  just  a  minute  longer  and  see  what  be 
comes  of  these  great  folk;  belike  they'll  be 
for  coming  up  here  next,  after  all.  Dear  me 
no!  they're  breaking  up  and  Sir  Harry  Vane, 
(he  is  looking  a  great  beau  this  morning  in 
black  velvet  coat  and  scarlet  waistcoat),  he 
has  the  child  by  the  hand  now,  the  nurse  fol- 


338          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

lo\ving,  and  is  leading  him  out  the  way  the 
coach  drove  in." 

"He'll  be  taking  him  to  the  Park  no  doubt, 
to  feed  the  swans.  Sir  Harry  will  have  his 
own  key." 

This  comment  came  with  a  shade  of  con 
scious  superior  knowledge  of  the  affairs  of  the 
Palace.  "What  about  the  others,  then?" 

"Well,  the  lady  has  sent  her  coach  off  with 
out  her.  'Tis  driven  out  after  Sir  Harry  and 
turns  in  the  direction  of  the  King's  Gate." 

"Then  this  great  personage  you  tell  so  much 
about  and  my  husband  are  left  alone,  I  should 
judge.  What  next?" 

"Mr.  Milton  is  leading  the  lady  now  back 
the  way  he  came  to  the  great  Court.  Yes,  he 
is  going  with  her.  I"ll  wager  he  is  for  showing 
her  the  Banqueting  Hall  and  all  those  strange 
outlandish  pictures  of  improper  women  on 
the  ceiling  the  London  folk  make  so  much  of." 

"More  likely  she  has  come  on  some  matter 
of  business  with  one  of  the  great  lords  of  the 
Council,  and  Mr.  Milton  is  helping  her  find 
him." 

"That  may  be  or  may  not  be,"  replied  Dame 


The  LATIN  SECRETARY     339 

Powell,  with  a  falling  inflection  as  of  disap 
pointment.  "One  guess  is  as  good  as  another. 
They're  all  gone,  that's  sure.  Mr.  Milton 
seems  not  to  be  returning." 

She  left  the  window  reluctantly,  crossed  the 
room,  and  said: 

"Here,  you  can  have  your  baby." 


XXIV 

THE  LIGHT  EXCELLING 

BY  the  side  of  the  long  Stone  Gallery,  at 
the  far  south  end  of  the  Palace,  John 
Milton  led  the  Lady  of  Bersele,  for  it  was  she 
who  had  aroused  the  curiosity  of  the  Widow 
Powell  in  so  great  a  degree,  and  so  into  the 
quiet  paths  of  the  beautiful  Privy  Garden. 
They  hardly  spoke  as  they  passed  on  through 
the  broad  parterres  gay  with  tulips  and  hya 
cinths  in  brilliant  bloom  and  came  to  a  rustic 
bench  facing  the  sun-dial.  Here  at  Milton's 
desire  the  lady  was  seated,  while  he  leaning 
against  the  dial's  pedestal  looked  for  a  mo 
ment  silently  down  upon  her. 

Something  in  the  searching  gaze  of  the  eyes 
gave  a  mysterious  pathos  to  his  face  which 
moved  his  visitor  beyond  the  agitation  natu 
rally  attending  a  meeting  after  long  years  of 
separation.  Altogether  the  change  in  her  old 
master.  Lady  Unwin  felt  to  be  profound,  al- 

340 


The  LIGHT  EXCELLING     341 

though  his  face  remained  nobly  beautiful. 
The  blithe  buoyancy,  the  sweet,  engaging  grace 
of  his  young  years  was  gone  and  with  it  the 
subtle  emanation  of  the  man's  confidence  in 
his  own  power  to  make  possible  the  impos 
sible.  The  lines  of  thought  and  care  were 
graven  deep ;  the  look  was  no  longer  free  and 
unfettered  but  gravely  musing;  word  and  mo 
tion  had  lost  something  of  impetuous  fire,  yet 
the  man  was  all  in  all  greater,  more  imposing 
than  she  had  remembered  him.  He  spoke  with 
an  unconscious  authority  furthermore  beyond 
his  early  habit,  and  in  all  things  showed  him 
self  as  one  weighed  upon  by  affairs  of  state 
and  moving  among  the  large  and  liberal  con 
cerns  of  human  life. 

The  Secretary,  on  the  other  hand,  was  re 
flecting,  that  the  changes  in  his  former  scholar 
at  first  so  striking,  were  all  to  the  good,  since 
in  face  she  appeared  little  older  but  only  to 
wear  a  softer  and  more  thoughtful  gentleness, 
while  in  bearing  she  had  gained  an  indefinable 
distinction.  She  seemed  to  him  not  less  spir 
ited  than  of  old  but  to  be  possessed  of  a 
sweeter  harmony  of  being. 


342          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

They  discussed  for  some  moments  the  ob 
vious  interests  of  their  respective  lives,  and 
the  leading  events  which  most  concerned  them. 
Milton  spoke  with  delicate  reserve  and  with 
much  kindness  withal  of  his  wife,  and  how 
but  four  days  since  a  son  had  been  born  to 
them.  He  regretted  with  a  certain  formality 
that  Mistress  Milton  must  lose  the  oppor 
tunity  of  renewing  old  friendship  with  so  dis 
tinguished  a  visitor,  and  yet  Delnie'  knew  per 
fectly  that  in  both  their  minds  lay  a  very  pal 
pable  relief  that  the  necessity  of  a  meeting  be 
tween  herself  and  Mary  Milton  was  obviated. 
That  his  wife  was  subdued  and  humbled  in 
spirit,  anxious  to  do  her  duty,  yet  as  incapable 
as  of  yore  of  comprehending  the  world  in 
which  his  interests  dwelt,  Delink  knew  intui 
tively  by  the  very  kindness  and  carefulness  of 
his  mention  of  her.  Next  they  spoke  of  the 
causes  which  had  brought  Delme'  to  England 
for  the  first  time  since  her  marriage.  Her 
mother  was  in  failing  health;  Dr.  Davies  had 
died  in  the  year  previous  and  at  the  wish  of 
her  husband,  the  Lord  of  Bersele,  Delink  had 
come  to  take  her  mother  home  to  his  castle  in 


The  LIGHT  EXCELLING     343 

Walcheren,  there  to  live  for  the  rest  of  her 
life.  They  were  leaving  on  the  day  following. 
Milton  had  not  heard  of  Beimels  presence  in 
London;  this  the  first  sight  of  her  therefore 
stirred  him  strongly. 

"The  lines  have  fallen  unto  you  in  pleasant 
places,  Lady  Unwin;  you  have  a  goodly  heri 
tage,  a  noble  husband,  a  fair  son.  All  good 
things  are  yours.  I  do  not  ask  if  you  are 
happy,  it  needs  not  that  I  should.  The  grace 
of  sweet  content  is  in  your  looks." 

Thus  Milton  concluded  their  swift  exchange 
of  personal  tidings,  a  thrill  of  profound  feel 
ing  in  his  voice. 

"And  you?"  she  returned,  forcing  her  own 
to  steadiness;  "yours  is  a  state  exceeding  far 
the  happiness  of  fair  possession.  You  have 
achieved!  All  England  recognizes  in  you  a 
champion.  Indeed  the  Netherlands  are  ring 
ing,  and  my  husband  says  it  is  the  same 
throughout  Northern  Europe, — with  the  fame 
of  the  'Defence  of  John  Milton,  Englishman, 
of  the  People  of  England'  against  Salmasius." 

"Is  it  so?    This  is  beyond  my  own  surmise." 

"Oh,  yes.     Every  one  at  The  Hague  is  ask- 


344          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

ing:  Who  is  this  John  Milton,  Englishman, 
who  wields  such  a  mighty  pen  and  speaks  with 
such  a  voice  of  thunder?  Can  you  imagine 
Prosper's  pride  and  mine  when  we  can  say,  He 
is  our  friend!" 

A  courtly  bow  and  Milton's  own  brilliant 
smile  greeted  this. 

"I  have  at  least  my  charter  and  freehold 
of  rejoicing,"  he  commented  presently,  "that 
I  have  not  shunned  to  declare  the  whole  coun 
sel  of  my  own  convincement." 

"This  is  the  third  great  utterance  of  de 
fence  which  the  nation  owes  you  in  its  present 
crisis,  Mr.  Secretary.  It  is  my  earnest  hope 
that  the  State  rewards  you  in  proportion  to 
the  service  you  render  it,  yet  such  is  not,  I 
think,  the  belief  of  Lady  Margaret  Ley,  whose 
guest  I  am  in  house  and  equipage  during  a 
day  or  two." 

"'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen  Lady  Mar 
garet,"  replied  Milton.  "Hers  is  a  quick,  in 
genious,  and  piercing  spirit,  and  a  somewhat 
overhasty  one  as  regards  her  requirements  for 
her  friends.  I  have  all  I  can  ask,  your  Lady 
ship:  a  goodly  lodging  here  in  Whitehall  for 


The  LIGHT  EXCELLING     345 

my  family ;  a  sufficient  compensation  in  money 
for  my  labour ;  daily  intercourse  with  the  fore 
most  spirits  of  the  time  and  the  men  of  liberal 
learning  of  every  nation ;  a  position  of  honour 
and  influence  among  my  peers.  Is  not  this 
enough?" 

"Lady  Margaret  has  told  me  that  the  en 
thusiasm  for  your  Defensio  on  the  part  of  the 
Council  did  take  the  form  of  official  thanks 
and  of  an  appropriation  of  a  hundred  pounds." 

"I  accepted  the  former." 

"But  if  Lady  Margaret  is  rightly  informed, 
not  the  latter." 

"To  have  done  so  were  palpably  impossible, 
Delme'" — here  Milton  broke  off,  confused  at 
the  inadvertent  lapse  into  his  old  habitual 
form  of  address. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Milton,  do  not  go  back 
to  calling  me  otherwise  than  as  you  used," 
cried  Delme',  colouring  high  and  looking  as  she 
spoke  no  older  than  in  the  days  when  Milton 
was  her  master.  "It  can  do  no  harm,  and  'my 
lady'  on  your  lips  chills  me  with  a  sense  of 
rebuff.  Hardly  can  I  hope  to  see  you  again, — 
perhaps  ever  in  this  life.  May  we  not  for 


346          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

this  little  hour  be  on  our  own  line,  be  our 
selves?" 

"We  may." 

Milton  spoke  with  imperious  brevity. 

"Tell  me,  then,  if  you  will, — this  labour  for 
the  State,  is  it  to  your  mind?  does  it  give 
scope  for  those  greater  powers  which  for  years 
during  the  War  time  you  curbed  for  sake  of 
serving  the  cause  of  liberty  in  divers  ways?" 

"To  say  so  much  as  that  is  impossible,"  re 
plied  Milton  gravely,  and  took  the  seat  as  he 
spoke  by  DelmeVs  side.  "Much  of  my  work  is 
rugged  and  difficult,  harsh  even,  by  the  neces 
sities  of  controversy  and  far  removed  from  the 
gentler  practice  of  poetry  to  which  my  mind 
has  from  my  youth  turned  with  profound  de 
sire,  still  held  at  a  distance,  and  from  time 
to  time  put  by." 

"Must  it  be  so  ever, — to  the  very  end?" 

"Be  not  so  tristful,  dear  DelmeY'  and  Mil 
ton  smiled  gently  at  her  tone  of  passionate 
protest,  although  the  seriousness  of  his  face 
deepened  perceptibly.  "The  time  cannot  be 
far  off,"  he  continued,  "when  the  State  will 
cease  to  crave  my  service  and  I  shall  have  all 


The  LIGHT  EXCELLING     347 

the  retirement  a  man  can  need  to  follow  the 
devices  and  desires  of  his  own  heart.  I  pre 
pare  and  compose  myself  accordingly." 

"But  how  may  this  be?" 

"Do  you  not  guess,  dear  Lady,  that  it  is  only 
with  difficulty  even  in  this  broad  noonday  sun 
that  I  discern  your  features?  Those  flowers 
yonder  seem  all,  as  I  look,  to  swim  now  to  the 
left,  now  to  the  right.  If  I  look  at  a  lit  candle, 
a  kind  of  iris  seems  to  snatch  it  from  me.  In 
veterate  mists  seem  often  to  settle  on  my  fore 
head  and  temples  like  a  purple  thickness,  and 
the  earth  seems  whirling  beneath  my  feet. 
Judge  yourself  what  all  these  things  fore 
shadow." 

"But  surely  this  calamity  can  yet  be 
averted!  It  cannot  be  too  late." 

"It  is  too  late,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  may 
have  yet  a  year,  hardly  longer,  before  I  give  my 
eyes  their  long  holiday.  It  was  determined, 
and  with  knowledge  prepense  at  the  time  when 
I  was  called  upon  by  the  Council  to  prepare 
the  Defence  of  the  English  People." 

"Determined  by  yourself,  Mr.  Milton,  de 
liberately?" 


348          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

"Yes,  deliberately.  The  choice  lay  before 
me  between  dereliction  of  a  supreme  duty  and 
loss  of  eyesight ;  in  such  a  case  I  could  not  lis 
ten  to  the  physician,  not  if  ^Esculapius  him 
self  had  spoken  from  his  sanctuary;  I  could 
not  but  obey  that  inward  monitor,  I  know  not 
what,  that  spake  to  me  from  Heaven.  I  con 
sidered  with  myself  that  many  had  purchased 
less  good  with  worse  ill,  as  they  who  give 
their  lives  to  reap  only  glory.  I  thereupon 
concluded  to  employ  the  little  remaining  eye 
sight  I  was  to  enjoy  in  doing  this,  the  greatest 
service  to  the  Commonwealth  it  was  in  my 
power  to  render." 

As  Milton  talked  on  with  utmost  compos 
ure  although  with  quiet  sadness,  Delme'  felt 
as  she  looked  and  listened  a  most  poignant 
emotion,  and  something  of  her  native  girlish 
frankness  of  rebellion  rose  within  her.  The 
man  beside  her  caught  a  sob  that  forced  its 
way  from  her  lips  and  turned  quickly,  for  an 
instant  laying  his  hand  upon  hers. 

"Nay,  Delme',  'tis  not  miserable  to  be  blind ; 
the  misery  would  be  in  not  being  able  to  bear 
blindness.  You  and  I,  remember,  learned  long 


The  LIGHT  EXCELLING     349 

ago,  did  we  not?  that  hard  things  can  be 
borne  and  cheerfully  if  the  heart  be  lowly 
wise." 

Still  Delme'  could  not  trust  her  voice  to 
reply. 

"Man  doth  not  live  by  bread  alone,  we  know, 
but  by  every  word  that  proceedeth  out  of  the 
mouth  of  God.  What  shall  prevent  me  from  be 
lieving  that  eyesight  lies  not  in  eyes  alone,  but 
that  to  the  inner  eye,  so  much  the  more 
when  the  outer  eye  is  darkened,  the  beatific 
vision  may  be  vouchsafed;  that  the  darkness 
may  be  illuminated  again  by  a  more  excelling 
light?" 

Beimels  tears  were  checked;  she  was  over 
awed  by  the  spiritual  greatness  of  the  man, 
and  yet  the  vehement  protest  of  her  heart 
would  not  be  silenced. 

"But  when  I  think  of  your  life-long  pur 
pose,"  she  murmured  passionately,  "of  the 
great  and  deathless  poem  which  it  was  in  you 
to  write  and  to  leave  as  the  heritage  of  the 
ages " 

"That  hope  is  not  dead,  dear  Delme'. 
Kather  Heaven's  light  shining  inward  does 


350          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

sometimes  give  me  promise  that,  though  I 
must  sing  darkling,  I  yet  shall  sing  of  things 
invisible  to  mortal  sight." 

The  lady  rose  from  her  seat,  her  face  white 
and  solemn,  a  sense  upon  her  that  the  place 
where  she  stood  was  holy  ground. 

No  word  broke  the  silence  as  they  together 
retraced  their  steps  to  the  great  Court,  from 
which  Milton  then  led  the  way  through  the 
lower  halls  of  the  Palladian  Banqueting 
House  out  upon  the  Palace  Street.  Here  be 
fore  Holbein's  noble  King's  Gate  the  coach 
which  had  brought  Delme'  was  waiting.  They 
stood  together  for  a  little  space,  the  lady's 
eyes  lifted  to  the  mullioned  windows  of  the 
Gate  rising  range  above  range  and  to  the  soar 
ing  battlements  of  the  octagonal  towers.  The 
stress  of  her  emotion  crowded  down,  she 
forced  herself  back  for  the  parting  moment 
upon  her  natural  gaiety. 

"  'Tis  a  brave  portal,"  she  cried  and  laughed 
a  little,  "and  I  can  but  think,  Mr.  Secretary, 
that  it  far  exceeds  in  its  royal  symmetry  and 
proportions  the  bourgeois  Alders'  Gate  down 
in  the  City.  Here  are  you,  dwelling  in  White- 


The  LIGHT  EXCELLING     351 

hall  Palace,  by  no  means  too  lordly  to  fit  you, 
sir,  and  I  myself  in  what  men  are  pleased  to 
call  a  castle,  over  the  sea ;  yet  do  I  wonder  if 
either  of  us  is  housed  better  to  our  mind  than 
when  we  lived  down  there  by  the  dear  old 
Alders'  Gate,  riding  gallantly  into  town  with 
poor  King  James  as  we  entered,  and,  once 
within,  sitting  most  majestical  with  him  on 
his  throne!" 

John  Milton  laughed  at  her  whimsical 
recollection. 

"  'Twas  a  goodly  gate,  and  I  would  gladly  be 
back  this  minute  in  the  old  garden  house  just 
beyond  it.  Would  your  Ladyship  like  to  read 
Tasso  once  more,  sitting  on  the  garden  bench 
under  the  plane  tree?'' 

The  lady  laughed,  but  tears  were  again  dan 
gerously  near  the  surface. 

"Had  Heaven  so  willed  it  I  might,"  she 
said,  forcing  herself  still  to  lightness,  "but  on 
the  contrary  Heaven  wills  that  I  shall  at  this 
moment  enter  Lady  Margaret's  carriage  and 
be  driven  through  the  Park  to  find  my  little 
son." 

"Vane  said  you  were  to  find  them  by  the 


352          SIX   YEARS  AFTER 

margin  of  Rosamond's  Pond,  if  you  re 
member." 

"Yes,  and  I  fear  Sir  Harry  will  be  ready 
to  throw  himself  into  Rosamond's  Pond  for 
sheer  weariness  if  I  keep  him  waiting  longer. 
Dear  Mr.  Milton,  dear  master,  good-bye." 

The  Secretary  took  her  outstretched  hand 
and  held  it,  studying  her  face  with  careful 
scrutiny. 

"I  wish  every  line  of  your  face  to  be  en 
graven  on  my  memory,  Delme',  for  the  coming 
years  in  which — I  shall  not  see  you  again." 

"You  can  see  me  now,  sir,  quite  plainly  of 
a  surety?"  she  asked,  a  slight  tremor  in  her 
voice,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his,  never  more 
lucid  or  unblemished  to  her  sight. 

"Through  a  glass,  darkly,"  he  made  answer 
very  gently,  "now." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  after  which 
he  added : 

"But  then,  face  to  face." 

FINIS 


tue  ' 
were 


